


Babylon Baby, Babel On

by BadHidingSpot, Deep_South



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Dis)Organized Crime, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe—cyberpunk, BDSM, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bouncer Steve Rogers, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Experimental Drug Use, Fuckboy Bucky Barnes, M/M, Minor Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Minor Shuri/Peter Parker, NeonNoirvember19, Rough Sex, Top Steve Rogers, Tower of Babel, authority kink, crime lord Alexander Pierce, criminal underworld in a neon dystopia, enthusiastic sadomasochism, language barriers, neon noir, porn with a whole lot of plot, sort of cybernetic devoteeism, strip clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadHidingSpot/pseuds/BadHidingSpot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deep_South/pseuds/Deep_South
Summary: “What’s your name?” Steve tries, his grip on Bucky’s throat loosening and even turning into a gentle stroke like Bucky needs to swallow something. Bucky couldn’t agree more. Bucky is going to tell him—heis. He’s resolved to give up the ruse: admit that despite his upbringing in the R-12, he speaks City just fine. That the drugs he’s just tongue fed a stranger in a club are stolen from Alexander Pierce’s private stash and Bucky has no idea what they are about to do. There’s just something about Steve that compels Bucky to press against him andspeak. Something about the way Steve’s eyes shine brighter than the ultraviolet LED strips lining the floor that makes Steve seem both other-worldly and solid. Under the full spectrum of light, the crisp trim of his beard is almost too precise and the blonde in his hair bleaches white. Bucky’s whole world narrows—throbs.The stranger—Steve—is just the kind of wholesome and wholesale danger that Bucky lives for.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 33
Kudos: 139
Collections: Neon Noirvember 2019





	1. A Confusion of Tongues

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially written for the "Neon Niorvember" challenge, but we are behind on things. This was also meant to be a quick one shot and yet brevity is not our strong suit... :o. (I.e. there's a surprising amount of plot as this tale goes on considering all the porn tags. So if you enjoy the vibe so far, please stay tuned!)
> 
> The initial Neon Noir challenge: To write a neon noir Marvel AU version of a folk or fairy tale. So the following is based on the folktale: "The City and the Tower" aka the Tower of Babel--kind of.--Mostly. :P
> 
> ***Bolded and asterisked dialogue text indicates a language other than English***

**Babylon Baby, Babel On**

_For there was a time when the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech. When man first came to the land of Shinar, there they said to one another, Let us build us a city and a tower that may strain, reaching upwards to the heavens. But when the gods came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of man had built, the lord then said, look at what the people, acting as one under the guide of a single tongue can do. Nothing shall ever be restrained from them. Whatever they dream, they can make real._

_Go then, said the lord, let us confound their language, so that they may no longer understand one another’s speech and never again set themselves higher than the ground._

-The Tower of Babel, or, “The City and the Tower” 

**CHAPTER ONE: A Confusion of Tongues**

Bucky understands that Alexander is in charge—but that doesn’t mean that he has to like it or even go along with it. Rumlow and Jack think Bucky doesn’t understand or maybe that he’s just a rebellious kid always testing the limits of his step father. But they’re all muscle and no brains. And that makes them careless—garishly poised as they are with slicked back hair that shines too brightly under the very lights they should be hiding from, and donning vintage, custom suits that register great on all the cameras. Bucky taking their delivery supply off of them had been as easy as batting his eyes at Brock and sliding his flesh hand into Rumlow’s coat pocket, fingers slithering in and over the silk lining like Bucky could ever be going for anything other than the drugs. 

Rumlow hadn’t had time for Bucky’s bullshit anyway. They had one of Pierce’s _errands_ to run and for whatever reason Brock drew the professional line at going off to do his little jobs hard when he should be more worried about his stash. By now the drop was happening, and Brock and Jack were in a bad way and probably knew it was Bucky who stole the goods. Bucky wasn’t worried about them--they’d be busy with that damage control for a while and, anyway, Bucky was miles away on a side of town he didn’t frequent in a skin club he’d never been to called “Thirteen”.

It’s a shitty club. All of them are. The whole place shines: glistens from the ceiling, the refraction of the poles, the mirrors on the floors. Even the bodies glisten, hosed-down and brushed-over in glitter flecks and baby oil. The brightness of it all cuts through the muted blacks until they grow velvet in the corners. It’s nothing but tricks of the light masquerading as opulence. Bucky’s never felt more at home. Even the dull steel of his arm shines in here in a way he doesn’t have to hide. No one has a second glance to spare for fake parts. Not in places like these where everything is plastic. Plastic but _alive_. The whole place has a pulse, the same arrhythmic heartbeat as the rest of the city. The music thrums so loud that the beat of the bass gets picked up by the synthetic components of the metal; it makes the nerves still lingering in his socket _throb_. It’s actually rather interesting, Bucky thinks, how just that--the dull searing sensation of a phantom limb—is enough to make him cease to feel anything else. He’s not even angry. He’s not reckless, or anxious, or worried about what Rumlow’s going to do about the missing stash, or what Peirce is going to do to Bucky in return. He just feels the thrum. 

Becky and their mother, Winnifred, think Bucky is just angry and that’s why he fucks with Peirce and his goons and his business deals. They think Bucky’s full of so much hatred and disdain for Peirce and the awful things he’s done since marrying Winnifred and bringing Bucky’s family into his empire that it makes him reckless and violent. They’re smart, they know Bucky better, and so they’re a little closer to the truth. All of that _is_ true and Alexander certainly disgusts Bucky with the way he runs his operation, how he’s always too touchy with Winnie, how he puts idiots like Rumlow and Rollins on important jobs, and how he always has just a little bit of dried egg yolk on his chin. But if it were just those things Bucky would just steal Peirce’s money and blow it on back rooms and cocaine. Bucky fully intends to do that tonight too—he’s already being led down a solid hallway of mirrors to a private dance room in the back with a bottle of top shelf champagne and a busty brunette named Darcy—but that’s not what he wants.

Bucky fucks with Peirce because he likes getting punched. Alexander never does it himself, he thinks his own hands are far too clean for such things, but he’s always ready to send a man or two into Bucky’s suite to bruise him up and teach him a lesson. The lesson being that Peirce is in charge and Bucky needs to respect that--except it’s a stupid lesson because Bucky already _knows_. It’s just not as important to him as having that sweet ache in his body or a hand around his neck.

Bucky’s not looking for that tonight though—or at least he didn’t think he was. But then Jack said some shit to him about Becky, asked him if she liked it from behind like Bucky does, and before Bucky could even get a punch in, Brock was holding him back and _laughing_. Bucky didn’t want to get punched then, and he obviously wasn’t going to get to beat Jack’s lights out, so he went for the third option of just ruining both his and Brock’s night. If Bucky had wanted to get punched and fucked he would have hung around, or at least stayed somewhere Brock and Jack could track him down after stealing the supply. But he didn’t want that--not from them anyway. So tonight the motivation is a little different and he tells himself that he’s fine with just a skin show and some heavy drinking. 

He should have known that it wouldn’t be enough to quell his usual need for a high. The lights of the VIP room are dull enough to reach his senses: maroons and magentas that turn most of the dancers’ skin bubblegum pink. The whole place feels a bit too much like it’s been shaken and stirred inside a Pepto bottle, something pale and sugary to coat the stomach cancer spindling from its center. Bucky knows he should enjoy the empty pleasures while they last. But now that the champagne is flowing and his stolen goods are burning a hole in his pocket, it simply isn’t _enough_. Even as Darcy gives him an admirable lapdance, white nylon leotard slotting up the cracks of her ass as she writhes, all Bucky can think about is how nice it would be to have someone hit him so hard he’d cut his lip up on his teeth.

Bucky pours himself a drink and fills one up for Darcy as well because he’s sweet like that. Even though her body’s too soft to get him hard, he’s still a gentleman. 

Bucky has no idea what kind of good time Brock had been carrying. Alexander’s empire had grown vast enough in its unsanctioned pharmaceutical distribution lately that Bucky can’t even hazard a guess over whether the drugs he’d lifted are uppers or barbiturates but he’s bored enough to not be picky about it. 

He pulls the little pill bottle out of his coat pocket and squints at the two white capsules sitting side by side at the bottom—an oddly innocuous choice in color, not the pops of blue or the fizzles of pink that Bucky’s used to. Two is also an incredibly small supply which means that at least whatever they do must be strong, and considering the amount Jack said they were set to pick up tonight they must be hard to procure. Bucky can’t think of a single drug that has that much street value for two hits. It must be good shit. Given all the circumstances, he should probably try one first and take the other if he doesn’t feel anything in an hour. Bucky pours one out, twists the capsule open, and dumps the white powder into his champagne. It dissolves, turning an electric blue when it hits the liquid—it’s a pretty sight, maybe a club drug after all, and Darcy gasps and stops the gyrations of her hips when she sees it. Bucky glances up at her as she twists her head around further, eyes squinting at the drink; he smiles with charm and nods to the glass, offering her a sip because, again, he’s a gentleman.

Darcy does not appear to be charmed by this in the slightest. In fact, she glares at Bucky and stomps out of the room—quite a fiet on those high heels. Bucky watches her go, tries to think of what he’s done that’s so offensive—is she a recovering alcoholic? How was he supposed to know? He hasn’t even said a word since coming in here and everything Darcy said was related to the price of the private dance and where the back room was. Bucky stands and opens the door that didn’t shut all the way when Darcy left. She hasn’t gotten far—she’s just a few feet away talking loud and frantically to a bouncer in a corner where the pink light cuts to blue then sputters into gold. The guy’s a very good looking bouncer. He’s tall and bulky in all the right places, looks like he could bench press Bucky if he wanted, and he’s got a well cared for blonde beard and a few tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of a shirt that is at least two sizes too small. The guy is hot enough to be a dancer here, and Bucky can tell the club’s an equal opportunity establishment, but the fact that he’s working security instead must mean he’s not as hard up for cash like some people in the district. That and that he knows his way around a fight. Maybe, Bucky hopes, he likes a fight.

The beef cake bouncer listens to Darcy’s plight. Bucky can’t help but notice how the pale glow of his eyes stay on Darcy’s face even as she heaves the ample weight of her breasts in a sigh. 

“He put something in my drink,” Darcy says, “I don’t know what. Some random pill.”

Right. Of course. Probably that looks very bad to a dancer. Or any dame. Or anyone else, Bucky supposes, that worries about waking up altered and sore with that wet feel of _use_ between their thighs. That’s not something Bucky has ever worried about, personally; it’s too close to the high he chases. A good way to wake up. But for once he hadn’t been thinking about that at all. It’s no wonder she got out so quick. Bucky must look like a complete creep. The bouncer seems to agree—he puts a soft hand on Darcy’s shoulder and gently moves her to sit down at a nearby table. “It’s okay,” he says in a deep, calm, and commanding voice, “I’ll go take care of him.”

It is Bucky’s lucky night after all. He closes the door and turns back into the room and picks up the champagne glass on the far end of the table—he’s pretty sure that was the one he put the pill in—and downs it quickly. He pulls his coat off, tosses it on the couch next to him, and plops down, spreading his legs wide and his lounging sprawl backwards.

_Steve,_ according to his name tag, is even hotter up close, coming into the room, letting the door shut behind him, and crossing his arms over his massive chest to glare at Bucky. “Stand up,” he says and it’s very clear, very no nonsense, like he’s going to be very mad if he has to repeat himself. Bucky doesn’t move, only grins wider and makes an audible moan as he drags his eyes up and down Steve’s body: He wants Steve to get very mad. “Didn’t you hear me?” Steve asks, stepping forward and growling out the words. Bucky doesn’t want Steve to pick him up and throw him out (well he doesn’t _just_ want that). Bucky will need to come up with a reason that he can’t leave just now—create an obstacle that could buy him a little longer in this dimly lit room with Steve. 

**“*Do you speak RL-12?*”** Bucky asks on sheer impulse, words pouring out smoothly in his native tongue from the R-12 district and beams when Steve throws him a quizzical look. Bucky goes on, just to be sure, “ ***Lock the door. Have some champagne.*** ”

Bucky is pretty confident that Steve has no idea what he’s saying. No one who isn’t from the R-12 speaks that specific form of Babel and no one from that far out of the eastern block of the city ever finds themselves out this way, especially not for a job. The fact that Bucky’s tongue knows the familiar shapes of either language system is an oddity, one that he’s used to his advantage more than once. He’s been trying to teach Becky what he can of standard City, but her mouth still forms the harder City vowels awkwardly and his mother never learned at all, which is why neither of them ever ventures far outside the house now that Alexander has moved them to the city center. Bucky hates the idea of them locked away in the cruel high tower that Pierce has built, a fortress emblematic of the core injustice of The City. How only those born to certain tongues really have a voice with which to speak and be heard. 

Steve’s voice, for instance, is strong, no traces of anything other than his central accent. The guy grew up speaking City and nothing else. Bucky is sure of that. 

Sure enough, Steve confirms Bucky’s suspicion with a further confused look. “I don’t,” Steve starts and then sighs, “Do you speak City? I--,” Steve breaks off, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Of course he doesn’t. No one of _worth_ does. Certainly not such a good central City boy. Although Bucky is sort of surprised for a moment that Steve actually looks bad about that fact, almost like he feels _guilty_ that he doesn’t speak Bucky’s form of babel. And that was just weird, but also a little intriguing. This might even be more fun than anticipated. 

Bucky pulls out his wallet, slaps two fifties on the table next to the remaining champagne and then taps the money for emphasis. Bucky leans back on the couch again and grins at Steve like he’s waiting for something. He gestures at Steve’s body and says, **"*I want you to get your teeth on me.*"**.

“ _City_ or not you gotta go,” Steve insists and closes the distance between them, reaching forward to pull Bucky up. Steve has Bucky by the elbows, but he hasn’t even lifted Bucky up yet when he stills, the rest of his body going momentarily frozen as the fingers of his big right hand flex around Bucky’s arm. Bucky knows that the guy must have been expecting the soft give of flesh. Just as he knows the metal beneath his jacket is anything but. It’s not like the guy hadn’t seen a Circuit Graft before, surely. The human body has plenty of pieces to lose and there are plenty of ways in The City to lose them. The club might not exactly be in The City Center, but it’s close enough that any old day in a joint like this should find a decent client blend of flesh and metal: bodies put through dangerous enough conditions on the regular but with enough of a steady income to sprinkle it with repairs. And that isn’t even counting the few that are well-off enough to upgrade by _choice_. So yeah, BoneGrinders and Gear-Grafters aren’t exactly _uncommon_ in this part of The City. That doesn’t mean the all-organics don’t still have _reactions_ though; People will find a reason to be prejudice about just about anything. 

Bucky hasn’t seen all of the bouncer’s body yet, even though he plans to. There’s no telling what all the guy might have hidden under his clothes. But even so, Bucky’s pretty sure that Steve-the-golden-boy-bouncer is as organically all natural as they come. The idea that Bucky might _disgust_ Steve isn’t necessarily a dealbreaker. Bucky can work with that. A guy that hot calling him “disgusting” and maybe roughing him up a little has its appeal. 

But Steve’s eyes don’t look put off and he doesn’t pull away. Instead that ocean melt turns sharper— _interested_ —which is just _interesting_ right back. Bucky can work with that too. 

Patrons aren’t supposed to touch the workers. It’s a steadfast rule that nobody follows. The real rule is that a customer can only touch the workers that want to be touched. Which usually meant money. Or, conversely, a look like _that_. Besides, the rules are different for bouncers. 

There are no rules for bouncers.

Bucky grabs Steve by the shirt and starts to lift it, hand darting underneath to grope at the exposed muscle. The movement is enough to jar Steve, breaking his curious gaze from where it’s been fixed on Bucky’s left sleeve and leather glove; he yelps and jumps a little like he’s ticklish and Bucky giggles.

“Dance, yes?” Bucky says in the thickest accent he can muster and Steve blushes.

“No,” Steve says, firmly taking Bucky by the wrists without pause this time and pushing his hands away from his stomach. Bucky makes an exaggerated pout as Steve says, “I’m not a dancer.”

“ ***What’s it going to take to rile you up?*** ” Bucky presses forward and nuzzles his nose against Steve’s.

“Stop that,” Steve growls, “I don’t understand you. I’m trying to throw you out.”

Bucky whines like a kicked puppy and twists his wrists out of Steve’s grip so he can get at the button and zipper on Steve’s jeans.

Steve smacks Bucky’s hands away again and Bucky sighs, putting his hands up in a show of defense. Steve looks annoyed but he’s also _looking_ , eyes fluttering between Bucky’s mouth and his raised palms. 

Or at least the left one. 

_Oh_ , Bucky thinks. Maybe Steve isn’t disgusted after all, but rather the opposite--the kind of guy who grows harder, more wanting, when looking at a grind. That’s not unheard of either, but it’s definitely more rare to find a guy that can look at Bucky’s prosthetic and salivate at the sight of it. Bucky’s been around. He knows what his mouth does to some men, just like he knows what his arm does to some men. It would be too perfect if Steve fit into both those categories. It’s been a long time since Bucky had that kind of lucky night though. The kind where he came across a guy who might understand exactly _all_ the things that he could do with Bucky’s body. It’s worth a shot though and so Bucky tests the waters, licks his lips, gets them shiny and wet as he peels off his glove with his teeth, biting from the middle finger and pulling. He does it slowly. It’s that kind of club afterall, the room is lit for it, strobing the light into a soft neon snow; he might as well give Steve a show. 

The metallic flex of his palm glows in the light, refracting all the colors of the room. Steve hasn’t moved, his eyes tracking the mechanical motion of Bucky’s hand, his pupils dilating wider at the sight of it. Steve, it seems, is _exactly_ that kind of guy after all. The confirmation makes Bucky’s smile grow into something radiant as he sits back down, spreading his legs as wide as he can, and rubs the heel of his palm into his crotch, lets the soft whir of the circuitry purr. Steve remains fixated, momentarily distracted by the movement, the determination of his body language slackening slightly at the sound. So Bucky makes even more of a show of it, syncopates his moans to the beat of the music as he curves his bottom lip into a bite of pleasure. 

Bucky isn’t sure how long the drug takes to activate or what it’s supposed to do, but he feels light and giddy and like if Steve doesn’t jump his bones he’s going to disintegrate—catch fire, combust, and burst into neon ashes, melding with the strobe lights. Bucky doesn’t normally feel like that, so something in the drug must be working. But he still has his whole language barrier ploy to carry on. Steve’s not drugged; he could still come to his senses at any moment and kick him out. Bucky rolls his hips into the pressure of his own palm and moans out an encouraging, “Dance” to Steve again.

“I’m not going to dance for you. No, Dance,” Steve insists, but his throat sounds tight, and when Bucky whimpers again, like Steve has broken his heart, Steve presses, “Understand?”

“You no dance?” Bucky slips a little on the ‘you,’ but gets the thick accent back before Steve can notice it. Steve just seems relieved that he’s gotten his ‘no dancing’ point across. Bucky’s going to have to watch himself if he wants to keep this facade going.

“Right,” Steve sighs. He holds his hand out to Bucky who takes it just long enough to get a good grip and pull Steve forward and onto the deep royal velvet of the couch. The champagne glasses don’t make it--they smash on the floor, the one that’s full emptying out onto the carpet in a delicate mangle of bubbles and shards. Steve lands awkwardly and Bucky takes advantage to roll them over so he can straddle Steve’s lap. Man on a mission to exile Bucky or not, Steve’s not exactly soft in his jeans, and Bucky laughs in victory, grinding his own rising erection down onto Steve’s. “What are you-?” Steve yells before Bucky cuts him off with a kiss. Steve kisses back, just for a second, but Bucky takes note of it, and when Steve pulls his mouth away Bucky leans back far enough to peel his own shirt off and toss it to the side.

Steve’s eyes go wide as he takes in Bucky’s skin, breath turning sharp, and Bucky knows he has him. The guy can’t seem to look away. Bucky has always had more muscle than his build would suggest, chipped and chiseled through sheer recreation. Steve seems to appreciate that about him, but he also seems to still appreciate the prosthetic even more, his pupils dilating slightly as he hones in on all the parts. It’s a complicated piece of tech, more advanced than most of the people this side of the city could afford. Not too many men have ever seen one in person, let alone know what to do with it. Bucky’s pretty sure Steve knows though. 

“ ***What do you want to do to me?*** ” Bucky grabs one of Steve’s huge hands and presses it to his chest while giving his hips another roll. He’s curious if Steve will touch him on his own. If his hands will stray to Bucky’s limbs. There’s just something about Steve—something so beautiful, concrete and unyielding. Maybe it’s the drugs, but Bucky would do just about anything for Steve to touch him. And maybe Steve can’t understand what Bucky’s saying, but anyone should be able to discern the dripping, pointed tones that spill out of Bucky’s throat. 

“ ***I could be so many things for you*** ,” Bucky tells him. Because it’s true. “ ***Your bratt, your whore. I can fight if you want. I could struggle. You can hold me down.*** ” Bucky shudders out his next breath, the ideas forming in his head too great to be contained. “ ***I’d let you be so mean.*** ” 

“I don’t,” Steve replies, breathless and seemingly trying to focus on anything but Bucky’s skin under his fingers, “have any idea what you’re saying.” Steve’s thumb grazes over Bucky’s nipple, soft at first, but then it turns into a harsh pinch and Bucky shutters. “Well,” Steve admits, with a hint of a smile, “I have _some_ idea.”

Bucky laughs. **“*I’ll bet you’re very good at hurting people,*”** Bucky takes Steve’s free hand and coaxes it to his throat. **“*I bet you’d be very good at hurting _me_.*”**

Steve closes his hand around Bucky’s neck faster than Bucky would have thought and the sudden restriction of air goes straight down Bucky’s spine, cutting off the blood flow in both his veins and his capillaries until his cock starts to harden under the strain. Bucky reaches down to let himself out of his jeans, mindlessly seeking out the relief of the cool air and a loosening of the material’s restraint, but Steve’s unoccupied hand gets a firm grip on both of Bucky’s wrists and holds them away. Steve pulls Bucky down by the throat, almost kissing him but holding their lips just inches apart.

“What do you like?” Steve asks. His words are warm and commanding, brushing across Bucky’s open and panting mouth. “You want me to squeeze tighter?” Steve grips Bucky’s throat harder and Bucky can’t help himself.

“Please,” Bucky begs, forgetting the R-12 entirely in favor of making sure Steve understands. “Please, _Sir_ ,” he adds on impulse. He fights to free his hands of Steve’s grasp, but not hard, just enough to show that Bucky wants to touch Steve, would put his hands anywhere if Steve would just let him.

“So you know those two words?” Steve asks—and it’s cruel and syrupy. Bucky realizes with a thrill that Steve is _teasing_ him. “Say ‘em again,” Steve orders and Bucky laughs with the little air he can get through Steve’s clenched hand.

“Please,” Bucky purrs out, “Sir.”

“Do you understand me?” Steve asks, like he’s more curious than frustrated now. “I get that you can’t speak City, but do you understand it?”

Bucky’s not entirely sure how to answer that. The whole point of the ruse before was to imply that he didn’t understand anything—things like Steve trying to kick him out of the club. But Bucky’s pretty sure Steve isn’t planning on doing that anymore. At least, not right away. The idea that they might instead find themselves in some impromptu heated fuck in the back VIP suite, where Bucky knows is one of the few places there aren’t any cameras, is looking more hopeful by the second. Not to mention Steve-the-adonis-turned-bouncer might just have a dark, impulsive side after all, the kind Bucky might be able to coax into choking him out while he rails him. And the last thing Bucky needs is for that _not_ to happen because Steve was worried about a _miscommunication_. So Bucky takes the risk and nods. 

Steve eyes him skeptically. “Alright, hold up three fingers if you understand me.”

And sure, it’ll look pretty suspicious if Bucky complies, considering he didn’t understand “no dance,” ten minutes ago. But maybe he just understands City better when he’s hard. Or something. 

Bucky holds up three fingers. The mechanisms of his left wrist crackle and whir as it flexes to accommodate the movement. Luckily, that’s enough of a distraction and Steve zeroes in on Bucky’s hand, his tongue darting subconsciously across his lip. 

“Good. I’ve got something for you,” Steve leans up, takes Bucky’s metal wrist in one hand, caresses it, then bites a bruise into Bucky’s neck.

**“*Yes, sir, you do,*”** Bucky purrs, flesh hand roaming down and sliding into Steve’s jeans to take hold of the gift.

Bucky’s so distracted by the wet pull of Steve’s lips on his pulse that he only barely registers Steve bringing the arm above Bucky’s head, pressing it to the wall as the suction of his mouth grows stronger. There’s the sound of clicking, metal on metal, and then a low hum that Bucky doesn’t so much hear as feel in the wrist of his metal limb. Steve pulls off of Bucky’s neck, smiles mean at him and pulls back. Bucky tries to move his prosthesis, but finds it suddenly stuck in a pair of magni-cuffs that Steve has apparently just used to chain him to the wall. 

Bucky jerks at his arm a couple of times, finding it immovable. Steve slides the knuckles of his own hand over the trapped limb, skimming playfully over the synthetic nerves humming beneath the metal, his blunt nails sending pleasant little chills through Bucky’s forearm. 

“So you don’t make any more trouble,” Steve explains.

**“*You’re prepared,*”** Bucky praises, and works his flesh hand on Steve’s cock instead in gratitude, **“*I should come here more often.*”**

He’s pinned but Steve either only has the one pair of magni-cuffs or he thinks Bucky is trapped enough—either way there’s no motion to restrict Bucky further. Steve, it seems, just wants the arm up and held in place where he can admire it. 

Bucky’s arm is pretty sensitive to pressure—Shuri fixed that up for him—so even the tiniest strokes of Steve’s fingers on his forearm are registering. Steve’s touch is _very_ lite, though, and the arm beneath Steve’s teasing caress whirrs and whines, working to pick up the sensations even through the magnetic tech that’s slowing his neural responses down. The pleasure of that denial crawls its way through Bucky’s veins like molasses, sticky and sweet and not quite enough to satiate. 

The cuffs have to be a custom job, built to hold biotech exactly like Bucky’s. Steve has some quality stuff—too quality for a bouncer making his living in the forgotten districts—and if Bucky himself didn’t know how rare limbs like his were he’d say Steve does this often. But maybe Steve just _hopes_ that this kind of thing will happen. Bucky’s not sure he cares _why_ Steve has equipment to chain him, just that he does and Bucky is _trapped_.

Steve shoves Bucky out of his lap unceremoniously and stands to cross the room to the door. Bucky whines, sure for a moment that Steve played a trick of his own just to get Bucky out of the club, the whine sliding into a moan as the harsh projection forward tugs sharply at his shoulder. But, once he reaches it, Steve doesn’t open the door--rather, he locks it so they can’t be disturbed, and then turns back to Bucky, pulling his shirt off and tossing it to the floor before he’s back in kissing distance. 

Steve shirtless in the twilight pulse of the room’s strobe lights is quite the sight to behold. Bucky’s mouth feels dry as he swallows, and Bucky wonders if that too is another possible side effect of the drug. Or if the rough ache in his throat is just the most natural reaction to having Steve standing over him all tall and powerful. And then there’s the case of Steve’s jeans, which are as tight as they could be—tighter than Bucky’s even, which is saying something. The guy does work in the club, so the uniform tracks, only the revealing nature of them isn’t fair. The head of Steve’s cock is standing at full attention, fully visible from the contours of the light. Steve is fucking _hung_ —thick and heavy and, Bucky thinks, begging to be licked. Bucky spreads his mouth open in offering, but Steve only has concerns for Bucky’s arm. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Steve leans down, bypassing Bucky’s lips as he takes each metal digit into his mouth, the wicked suction of his tongue engulfing the whole of each finger until his lips brush against Bucky’s palm . The bright, tingling sensation is delayed by the magnet, but Bucky still feels it, maybe even a little stronger than usual. “What are you made out of?” Steve asks and Bucky wonders why Steve would bother forming complex questions at Bucky who, as far as he knows, can’t answer him properly if he wants to, when he realizes that Steve is talking to _the arm._

Bucky’s own cock jerks in his slacks, the hot rush of arousal in that realization mangling with the sharper heat of jealousy. Bucky tells himself that he’s not about to get jealous of his own prosthetic—especially not one as advanced as his that has been so hardwired into him that it might as well have always been there. It’s a part of him. If Steve is touching the arm, he’s touching Bucky--admiring Bucky and his body in the very way Bucky is eyeing and appreciating the thick muscles of Steve’s own biceps. That part isn’t the problem. It’s that Steve won’t put his mouth or his touches anywhere else, like Steve knows just how much that will drive Bucky crazy. Like he just knows Bucky’s the kind of boy who likes to be reduced to his parts, seen as an object. A pretty thing with foreign luxury pieces. And that’s the problem: Steve is right. 

The other problem is that Steve uses that to be a goddamn tease. 

Bucky lunges forward to get his mouth on the exposed flesh of Steve’s torso only to be stopped short with Steve’s tight hand, finally on his throat once again. Steve looks down at Bucky, gaze mockingly disappointed but definitely hungry. Bucky pushes forward into the grip, mouth reaching for what is so close and so far, and Steve holds him firmly in place. “You’re impatient,” Steve criticizes.

Yes, that’s fair; Bucky _wants_ and Steve is toying with him. There’s also the fact that they’re in a back room where Steve works, where people on the other side of the door are expecting Bucky to be dragged out any minute. Bucky knows there’s a ticking clock on this game but here Steve stands, like he has all the time in the world—that he can play this game as long as he wants. Maybe he can. Maybe Steve has more power than Bucky gave him credit for. Perhaps no one is going to come in and check on Steve. They certainly aren’t going to come to check on _Bucky_ , which means he’s more trapped than he realized. Steve has all the control in this situation—control over his own arousal (since he’s still so unconcerned with his own hardness), and of Bucky’s. And as far as Bucky’s concerned, that is simply fucking fantastic. 

“Please, Sir,” Bucky moans and he’s glad he gave himself those two words at least because he feels he’s about to use them a lot.

“Greedy,” Steve teases and presses his thumb into Bucky’s Adam’s apple, making him choke a little. “Spoiled thing aren’t you? Used to getting what you want right away, is that it?” Bucky wants to nod—if he hadn’t backed himself into this language corner he could be begging Steve right now. Bucky can tell already that Steve likes begging—it’s why he’s teasing Bucky so mercilessly. Bucky can’t beg with two words, not properly like Steve deserves, so instead he locks his eyes onto the thing he wants, Steve’s cock, and opens his mouth wide, and lets out the filthiest whines he can muster.

Steve’s thumb twitches against his windpipe before he digs in deeper. “Is this what you want?” Steve asks, like that would even be a question.

Bucky nods anyway, throwing in another “Sir” just to see the way it makes Steve’s eyes flash. Steve pulls Bucky forward by the throat, his left arm and shoulder wrenching further in a twist above him, flesh hand clutching at the velvet cushions as the pull brings Bucky down closer towards Steve’s lap in licking distance of Steve’s dick. Bucky almost falls for it, he almost wraps his lips around the thick bulge behind the denim without permission, Bucky’s eagerness always three jumps ahead of the will to obey orders. But now, with Steve’s hand on his throat, and Steve’s cuffs on his wrist, and those sharp glacial eyes watching so closely, Bucky is overwhelmed with the need to please—the desperate rebellion always sitting in his belly snuffed out by just a look from Steve. So Bucky closes his eager mouth, bites hard onto his bottom lip just to make sure his tongue can’t slip out and act without him. He bites down to keep himself from speaking, too, wondering what Steve would do to him if he just started begging in City, dropping the facade. Steve would be angry, probably, and Bucky wants to see him angry, eventually, but for right now he needs that approval that Steve is withholding more than anything else.

“Good,” Steve praises in response. And something on Bucky’s own face must react enough to the word that Steve says it again even better, “that’s a good boy.” His grip on Bucky’s throat slackens so he can slide his thumb between Bucky’s lips and pry his mouth open. He’s mean with it, but he doesn’t _need_ to be; Steve must simply like the cruelty of it as much as Bucky does. Bucky will open up easily for him anywhere: mouth, ass, Bucky would even cut a hole into himself if those places weren’t enough for Steve. 

The soft snowfall of the lights bleeds into green. Steve looks into Bucky’s mouth, runs his thumb over his teeth, feels the softness of his lips and tongue. Bucky sucks the digit in, can’t help himself anyway and Steve doesn’t tell him to stop. He gazes up at Steve through his eyelashes, knowing the weight of them at such an angle must look incredibly soft. 

“Very pretty,” Steve confirms. He watches Bucky for a moment, thumb stroking at Bucky’s jawline almost soothingly before, without a single warning, he adds two fingers, shoving them in hard and as far back into Bucky’s parted lips as they will go. Bucky doesn’t gag, he’s proud of himself for that, instead he relaxes his throat and doubles his efforts: his mouth is more than just a pretty thing to look at. Steve’s hand tastes like lime and salt. 

“That’s my boy,” Steve praises, pushing his fingers in and out of Bucky’s working mouth, “being so good for me. Working so hard. You must want it bad.”

Bucky has just enough situational awareness to hone in on the way Steve’s other hand unzips his own fly, the thick weight of his dick tumbling out into the air the second the barrier of the metal teeth give way. Were his mouth not completely occupied with Steve’s fingers, Bucky would scream to be fucked. He gets his chance a few moments later as Steve pulls his fingers out with a wet pop and Bucky chases after them with his mouth. He misses the taste; he needs to be filled. **“*Make me cry,*”** Bucky whimpers, **“*I’ll be such a good boy for you. Make it hurt, please?*”**

If only Steve could understand him. But judging by the dark look in his eyes and the way he pulls Bucky by the hair and shoves into his mouth—all the way to the back of Bucky’s throat without an ounce of hesitation—Steve _does_ understand.

Bucky slides his free flesh hand under the waistline of his own pants, knowing before he even does it that Steve is not going to let that shit stand. Sure enough, Bucky’s barely grazed himself with his fingertips before Steve wrenches Bucky’s wrist away, twists it back far enough to hurt, and says, “No one told you to touch, you brat,” all while still thrusting into Bucky’s working mouth. Bucky can’t apologize out loud, for multiple reasons, so he whines around Steve’s dick and thrusts his hips helplessly into the air. His metal arm, linked into Bucky’s desires deeper than his flesh one, whirrs and whines for him, the pathetic desperation a louder echo of Bucky’s own.

“Poor thing,” Steve says, voice thick with condescension, and leans over to kiss the palm of Bucky’s left hand again. Bucky’s right is still twisted back in pain for a few beats longer before Steve pulls it to lay flat against his own broad chest. “Me,” Steve allows, “you can touch me if you’re so needy.”

Bucky goes with his first instinct: to drag his nails down Steve’s chest sharp and deep. Steve hisses, pulls Bucky’s hair in retaliation, and jerks his hips further into Bucky’s mouth. There are red marks to show Bucky’s work but they fade too quickly. Steve laughs, breathless, and says, “You can do better than that,” and if that doesn’t make Bucky eager to prove Steve right then nothing will. He thinks, briefly, that it’s unfortunate that he only has one arm to work with, but he wouldn’t change the hold Steve has over him for anything. Bucky tries again, catching some of Steve’s skin under his nails this time and these marks stay like they’re supposed to.

Steve starts to push and pull Bucky’s head by the hair where he wants Bucky’s mouth to go and stills his own hips, letting the slide of Bucky’s lips and tongue do all the work for him. Bucky feels _handled_ and the sharp pain in his scalp has him dripping in his jeans, strained so hard he’s leaking, dizzy with the need. 

Steve runs the back of his hand up and down Bucky’s cheek. The motion feels adoring but borderline threatening like he could choose to slap Bucky at any moment. “You’re soft and warm all over,” Steve says jerking his hips suddenly and giving Bucky a reason to choke, “I knew you would be. Just had to go deep.” Bucky’s eyes flutter and he pushes down further onto Steve’s dick trying to get him deeper still. “This is all you needed, isn’t it doll? Just needed something in you to make you all sweet.”

Steve, with his free hand, mercifully reaches down and sets Bucky free of his zipper, and slides his hand in to find, to Steve’s clear delight, that Bucky isn’t wearing underwear. He only gives Bucky a soft tug, too light to be anything other than a mockery of Bucky’s pleasure, before he circles his index finger around Bucky’s head, catching some of the precome on his finger, before he brings his hand back up, sliding his fingers into Bucky’s mouth alongside his cock. Bucky feels stretched around Steve already and the addition of his fingers is too much—tears leak down his face and Steve pulls out completely and leans down to lick at the droplets on his cheeks. 

Steve’s tongue is soft and Bucky leans forward, angling his jaw towards Steve’s dick again, finding the feeling of being empty so deeply awful he needs his mouth to be put back to use. But Steve just cruelly holds Bucky back by the hair, keeping his mouth from its goal, and uses his other hand to tug Bucky’s pants off. The angle is wrong and Steve is pulling Bucky’s body up by the hair, throwing him against the back of the couch so he can crouch down and work Bucky out of his jeans.

Steve stands up straight again and stares down at Bucky, considering him as he lays there hard, completely naked, and wet mouth begging and empty. Bucky shivers--not from any chill, the room feels like it’s burning all around him—but from Steve’s pensive gaze while he towers over Bucky, mostly clothed while Bucky is stripped of everything. It’s exactly the kind of high Bucky’s been cruising for all night: the shivery imbalencing offset of power as Steve stands there, taking his sweet time looking Bucky over and deciding what to do with him.

With his mouth tragically unoccupied and his desire raging inside of him, Bucky speaks again, pleads with Steve to use him, **“*I want,*”** Bucky groans and tries to form the words around the ache in his throat, **“*Don’t be a tease, you asshole.*”**

“I hope that was something nice, you sound frustrated,” Steve says as he runs his knuckles down the side of Bucky’s face. Too soft, gentle where Bucky wants heat and pain.

Bucky spits a curse at Steve, something that is very specific to the R-12 dialect, hard to translate, but his expression and tone aren’t. Steve picks up on the ire of the insult if not the full meaning, and brings his hand up in the air ready to slap Bucky for his words. Bucky leans into it, lifts his cheek and closes his eyes, a soft smile of anticipation forming on his lips and waits a full beat before he realizes that Steve isn’t bringing his hand down. Bucky opens his eyes, one at a time and groans, disappointed because Steve is just standing there, eyeing him curiously, hand still poised in the pre-slap position.

Steve smiles, laughs hard and small like he can’t believe Bucky is real and asks “Where did you come from you twisted, beautiful little fuck?”

“Please, Sir,” Bucky purrs, closing his eyes again and offering up his face. Before he has time to worry that Steve doesn’t understand, or that Steve doesn’t want to, the harsh bite of the slap hits him where he’s asked for it, so hard Bucky actually falls over, the cuffs on his arm the only thing keeping him on the couch. He’s on all fours, or all three rather, and he wishes he could feel the bite of the cuff in his arm—it whirrs and sparks in its own type of delight at the pain. Bucky pulls himself up, the cuffed arm doing the bulk of the work, and turns to present the right side of his face to Steve.

There’s no hesitation now, hopefully Bucky has snuffed any out for the rest of their time together, when Steve swings his closed fist this time at Bucky’s face and hits him so hard Bucky finally cuts his lip on his teeth, tasting blood.

The noise that the impact pulls out of Bucky is so primal, so _wanting_ and _needy_ that Steve pauses for a split second above him, eyes flashing out the tones of Bucky’s guttural sounds. A moment passes between them, rich with an understanding that supersedes the language barrier, and then Steve is on him, the hard length of his body enveloping Bucky’s as Steve’s heavy weight pins him deeper into the couch. Bucky does what he can to open himself up for Steve’s taking: spreads his legs, tilts his spine, lets the heavy pull of gravity against his arm build. Steve does what he wants with Bucky’s body, twists him upwards, prodding with sure, efficient fingers as he pulls the cheeks of his ass open, takes a swig of champagne into his mouth directly from the bottle and spits it back out in the vague direction of Bucky’s hole. The surprising warmth of the liquid drips, sticky and sweet down the split of him and Bucky cries out in surprise before Steve is pushing his way in, gentle but steady on nothing but a 300 credit bottle of Don. Bucky’s taken enough dick to know how to take it now, even like this. It’s dry, _burns_ : it lights Bucky up. 

Steve barely gives Bucky a moment to adjust to the overwhelming size of him before he’s moving, heavy, heady thrusts of his body driving Bucky’s back into the soft plush of velvet cushions beneath him. With how dark the things are that Steve whispers into Bucky’s ear, he either knows Bucky can understand him and that Bucky _likes_ what he’s saying, or Steve is taking advantage of the freedom to grit out all the dark thoughts in his head while he fucks Bucky, thinking they’ll stay secret like a confession. Bucky’s pretty sure it’s the later--that Steve is finding a deep kind of freedom in the catharsis of being able to speak without being heard. That he thinks he’s safe to let some of his darker thoughts out. The thought is an exhilarating one: that Steve is a man who has layers, and that the glimpses of them Bucky has seen are only the ones that lurk just beneath the surface, ready to slip out during an impromptu collision of strangers. That Steve is bound to be even darker at his center; Bucky will do anything to get to know the core of him. Because the things Steve are saying are exactly the things he wants to hear from Steve. To _have_ from Steve. 

“You’re such a beautiful whore,” Steve breathes against the shell of Bucky’s ear, fingers drumming over the increased pulse below Bucky’s chest. “I should take you home. I’ve got cuffs there to hold you. A nice warm bed and a cage to keep you in. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Getting locked up like an animal, something I only keep around to fuck and punish. You’d beg for it. You’d be my prisoner, my good boy, and I’d give you everything you need when I say you need it. I’ll soundproof the walls so you can scream all you like. With lips like yours, I bet you scream so pretty.”

Bucky isn’t sure what kind of person it makes him exactly that he’s getting off on Steve talking about literally abducting and imprisoning him, but his first guess is: Steve’s Good Whore. Does Steve really have those things? A cage and chains and sound proof walls? As far as Bucky is concerned, Steve can keep him in a cage all he wants to, or chained to the wall, or maybe a shock collar on his neck, or some lovely combination of all three because Bucky misbehaves and tries to escape just so Steve will punish him—remind him what he’s good for, where he belongs, who he belongs _to_.

The idea of it pushes Bucky higher. Steve sounds so sure of his words, like he maybe isn’t lying. That the fantasies he offers might have real foundations. Bucky swears again, R-12 expletives a go-to when he’s lost to sensory bliss, even when he isn’t pretending to only bable. They spill out of him now, melodic clashes of syllables that must be foreign noise to Steve’s ears, but ones he seems to like if the low growls and sharper grunts he offers in response are proper indicators. 

“God the way you _move_ ,” Steve tells him, which Bucky thinks is a curious statement seeing as how very little of his current movement is his alone, manhandled and manipulated as he is by Steve’s body. Bucky’s completely caged in by the weight of it, rocking only to Steve’s rhythm. If Bucky’s moving in any way, it’s because Steve is moving him. But Steve still seems captivated by that anyway, eyes raking over the fragments of Bucky that he can see from up that close as he continues to speak. “It’s like you _want_ to be prey.”

And well, Steve’s not wrong. So Bucky whines, shakes his head yes, even though Steve probably assumes that Bucky can’t understand him. 

“Bet I know what will really bring you under,” Steve promises, and the tone of it is hungry, sounds almost uncannily dark on a face so wholesome and bright. Bucky can’t wait to find out what that means and he doesn’t have to, because suddenly Steve is shifting, hiking Bucky’s legs over his ridiculously broad shoulders so that Steve can leverage himself closer towards Bucky’s up-stretched and bound arm. The moment Steve gets his mouth on it, Bucky’s world flickers, his senses strobing with the club lights. Steve doesn’t just lip the metal, he _licks_ it, a long wet stripe of a rolling tongue that lights up the circuits beneath the casing. When the tip of Steve’s tongue finds the first dip of its ridges around the joints, a split in the tech designed for movement, but all the more vulnerable for it, he digs the slick of the muscle right in and the pleasure of it is almost too bright, swells up inside of Bucky in an electric wave of live wires and conductive metal, licked and coaxed to spark; Bucky _screams_. 

Steve’s own forearm is on him in a second, the thick muscle under his flesh pressed hard to Bucky’s lips to keep him quiet, the size of it enough to force Bucky’s jaw open so that the side of Steve’s arm can rest inside it, muffle the noise and give Bucky something substantial to bite. Bucky complies, digs his teeth in as Steve proceeds to suck, lavishes Bucky’s prosthesis with the kind of attention that Steve has no business knowing about. It’s not like the heightened sensitivity of mainline-wired forms of biotech is common knowledge. It’s something a person either learns when they get it, or from a very prolonged and intimate study of someone else that has it. Or, potentially, is knowledge garnered from the alley-lurkers that make a living with all their parts over in the unnumbered districts. 

As far as Bucky can discern, Steve has no such tech himself. Which only leaves so many remaining options, all of which really just posits more questions. Bucky doesn’t have time to ask any of them now though. Nor does he want to. Not when Steve runs a sinuous tongue from his elbow to wrist in a way that makes Bucky’s spine arch, helpless little keanings pushing past the pressed seal of Steve’s forearm to Bucky’s lips. Steve simply humms, a mocking, soothing sound that vibrates through the chrome. And it’s all just too acute, too raw, the best kind of wound that shakes in his soul until all of Bucky’s muscles seize and quake and he comes, orgasm hitting fast and hard without warning as the overexposed sensors on his wrist register the quirk of Steve’s lips as the shape of a smile. 

Bucky might as well have lost time for as little as it means to him after that. His whole body feels frayed, severe burns soaked in oil, all on the precipice of a dangerous ignition as Steve continues to steadily stroke and spark inside him. He lets Steve move him— _use_ him—even more so than he had before, body going ragged and limp. Steve keeps himself steady, a casually relentless pace to the thrust of his hips as he finds his own orgasm on his own time, unhurried despite the lingering threat of whoever and whatever could await them outside the door. Bucky would verbally commend him for that, but he doesn’t have the words. And as far as Steve is concerned, he doesn’t have _any_ words. So Bable will do. 

**“*I want you to use me until I burn,*”** Bucky mumbles, because he’s always been nonsensical and poetic after an orgasm. 

Steve can’t understand him anyway, but his eyes are sharp, even when his mouth is slack, and he still groans when Bucky speaks, like he likes the lilt of it. “I’m going to come inside you,” Steve informs him, blunt, but his voice teeters at the end, a vibrato of pleasure. 

“Please,” Bucky encourages as he nods. He has no idea where Steve has been and Steve’s already raw. Bucky will walk out of the club dripping with the essence of a stranger. One who apparently lives for The Risk of life, just like Bucky, seeking out pockets of bad ideas in the chase of better consequences. “ _Sir,_ ” he adds, because even fucked out with his circuits blown, Bucky can still be good like that. 

“Such a good little doll,” Steve breathes, hips stuttering, peaking towards a release. 

“Your doll?” Bucky rolls the words off his tongue thickly, like the syllables are foreign and heavy. Like he’s testing them out, seeing if they’re right. Innocent and offering, even though Bucky hasn’t been innocent for _years_ , and he never offers without taking in return. But the tone of the words and their meaning still land and it’s all it takes to send Steve over. Unlike Bucky who always quakes when he comes, Steve finds his apex of pleasure in one long full body undulation, thrusting into Bucky one final time before he freezes there, pressed as deep to the root of him as he can as everything inside Bucky turns suddenly hot, the pulse of Steve’s orgasm filling him up, making him wrythe. 

Steve strokes at Bucky’s cheek as he looks at him, offering a final nuzzle of his nose to the crook of Bucky’s jaw before he pulls back. Bucky’s skin turns instantly cold when Steve pulls out of him. The back lounges are kept a little chilled to perk the dancers up, and even the timed transformation of the lights from aquamarine to red do nothing to warm the room up. The crimson glow does make Steve seem even more beautiful though, smoothing his skin until there’s nothing there but dips in the muscle and remnants of fluid: seman and sweat that looks in the light like watered-down blood. 

Bucky licks at his lips, wishes they were Steve. The drugs must have a long delay period in them because even though Bucky feels fucked out and ravaged he knows instinctively that that’s all because of Steve—the crash of pure sex and adrenaline that comes even without subtences in the mix, heightened further by whoever, or whatever, Steve is.

As Steve dresses he leaves Bucky chained, naked, and stained on the couch. Bucky doesn’t mind—Steve is making a show of covering himself up and Bucky didn’t think that could be sexy. But the way Steve does it feels like a power move—a slow display of stripping in reverse; he’s done with Bucky and his doll can wait naked and debauched, like he belongs, while Steve makes himself a picture of clean cut, wholesome, good City boy even as Bucky is covered in evidence to the contrary. Bucky is going to have bruises for days, the smell of Steve in his hair and clothes so long as he doesn’t shower, and Steve’s cruel words in his ear for ages.

Fully dressed now, Steve picks up Bucky’s shirt from the floor and firmly cleans Bucky up with it. His movements are hard but not mean, like Bucky is a messy boy that Steve is determined to make presentable, but still something fragile that Steve has finished breaking—for now. Steve is a good man who cleans his toys when he’s done with them. It’s _kind_ and the juxtaposition makes Bucky laugh. Bucky laughing earns him a smirk from Steve.

“You having fun, there?” Steve asks, voice soft and adoring. He runs his hands through Bucky’s hair, straightening out the tangles he pulled into it moments before. Bucky’s shoulder is starting to ache from having his metal arm held above him so long but he doesn’t rush Steve to unchain him—Bucky likes a little ache, after all.

As an answer to Steve’s question, Bucky leans in for a kiss. Steve allows it, the press of their mouths feeling somehow more vulnerable when there’s no sex to build to. Bucky has never wanted to kiss someone before just for the sake of kissing them—kisses are like drugs, they’re supposed to lead somewhere, to something, a rung on the ladder to climax. But they’re all done with that now, Bucky has gotten his and though he’s sure Steve’s got another go in him that’s not what the kiss is about. It’s exactly what Bucky means it to be: an answer to the question—yes, Steve, I’m having fun.

Steve pulls out of the kiss, slowly, like doing it quickly could startle Bucky, and runs his thumb over Bucky’s lips, a substitute for all the other parts of him Steve has had there tonight. “Such a sweet boy,” Steve chuckles and then reaches over to pick up Bucky’s long discarded coat from the couch. The orange bottle with the lonely little pill in it falls out of the pocket—Steve has good reflexes on top of everything else and manages to snatch it before it gets to the ground. Bucky watches him, holding his breath, his belly squirming in a pleasant way wondering if the reminder of the drugs, the reason Darcy sent Steve back here in the first place, is going to earn him some punishment.

“This isn’t E,” Steve says, curious, as he pops the bottle open and pours the little disc into his palm. “Not a form of it I’ve seen anyway.”

Bucky could break the facade now, speak in City and just explain the misunderstanding to Steve. But what would he say? That he doesn’t know what it does either? That so far it appears to do nothing? That might do more harm to Bucky than he’s strictly comfortable with so instead Bucky opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue--an action Steve will understand with total clarity.

Steve smirks and holds up the pill between his thumb and forefinger, far from the reach of Bucky’s eager mouth. “You want this?” Steve comes closer, leans his body over Bucky’s, a tower of a man, and slides his knee between Bucky’s thighs splitting them apart. Steve is standing on one leg, with one knee nestled close to Bucky’s exposed crotch, and his free arm supporting him against Bucky’s head. Bucky doesn’t dare close his mouth or even rescind his tongue. “Take it,” Steve offers, holding it out of reach and pulling it away even as Bucky moves closer to it. Bucky closes his mouth to pout and it makes Steve laugh. “I see. You want me to give it to you?” Bucky nods, lips parting and tongue stretching out again. “You like taking what I give you.”

“Please, Sir,” Bucky begs and the two words have just the effect Bucky intended, a little fire lighting up in Steve’s eyes as he concedes.

“Good boy,” Steve puts the pill on his own tongue, rests it there gently, and then lowers it into Bucky’s mouth.

This is a kiss with purpose—Bucky can be a sweet boy, he’s sure he’s shown Steve that, but he can also be a snake, a trickster, a brat who wants attention through making trouble—Bucky shoves the pill deep into Steve’s mouth, pushes until Steve swallows it down. When Bucky pulls away he’s grinning in victory. Any number of things could happen because of what he’s done and Bucky thinks of himself, sometimes, as a scientist.

“You filthy little punk,” Steve growls, some anger but all heat, as he grabs Bucky by the throat and slams him against the wall. “What the fuck did you just give me?”

**“*We’re going to have so much fun. I’ll bet that stamina of yours doubles. You can take me home—like you wanted.*”** That’s a good idea: Bucky will come clean once he’s locked up in Steve’s place. Steve will be too deep in at that point and hopefully the drugs will finally kick in and they’ll both be too high to care. Bucky can tell Steve what he likes to hear--Steve can know how twisted and lucky Bucky feels to have found him.

Something about Bucky’s need must show on his face. How utterly gone Bucky is on this moment and how much Bucky wants to please him, an intimate _stranger_ , because Steve’s eyes go soft, the flash of anger draining into a tender kind of wonder. Steve blinks at Bucky like that—trying to understand Bucky’s babel even though he only needs the tone and the flutter of Bucky’s eyelashes to know the idea. Usually Bucky would be done with this whole scene by now. His curiosity satiated and already moving on to chase his next high with someone new. But there’s a connection between them. Bucky knows that there is. He’s not done with Steve yet. Not even close. He can feel it in the air, a trail of oil waiting for a spark. He knows Steve can feel it too. 

“What’s your name?” Steve tries, his grip on Bucky’s throat loosening and even turning into a gentle stroke like Bucky needs to swallow something. Bucky couldn’t agree more. 

Bucky is going to tell him, he is. He’s resolved to give up the ruse. Something about the way Steve’s eyes shine brighter than the ultraviolet LED strips lining the floor makes Steve seem both other-worldly and solid. Under the full spectrum of light, the crisp trim of his beard is almost too precise and the blonde in his hair bleaches white. He’s just the kind of wholesome danger Bucky lives for. 

Bucky takes in a deep breath, lets it rattle through his chest where his bare skin still presses against the strain of Steve’s shirt. There’s a beat of a moment, a rustle followed by a thud from outside in the hall. “Tell me your name,” Steve repeats, a steady whisper, imploring and demanding all at once in a way that makes Bucky feel both controlled and revered, another dangerous combination. And in that moment, Bucky knows he really would likely give Steve anything, provided he used that tone. 

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by a flurry of splintering sound as the door is kicked in, shards of wood flying everywhere. Steve, bodyguard bouncer that he is, is on Bucky before the scraps of the door even have time to hit the floor tiles, his thick body engulfing Bucky’s on reflex. Bucky startels, his own body jerking at the sudden surprise, only to groan and roll his eyes as an annoyingly familiar voice shouts, “James Buchanan Barnes—hands up!”

Fucking Cock Block Detective Wilson; Bucky knew his night had been going too well.


	2. The City and the Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual plot develops...
> 
> Thank you to all who have supported this fic! All comments, kudos, and feedback are most certainly appreciated :)

**CHAPTER TWO: “The City and the Tower”**

The City was miserable when wet. The City was always wet. 

The constant rain of the night made all the sidewalks slick and the traffic always seems never-ending. Especially on the X-05—a stretched but still sinuous snake of a street constantly writhing its way down The City in a crooked spine. Sam knows this. So he doesn’t know why, after all this time as part of the TCPD, he still had told Maria that he could make it to the club in 20 minutes. 

It’s a full forty-eight minutes later that Sam finally pulls up to the curb. The cruiser doesn’t pay-to-park so he leaves it where it is. Even in this part of town no one will touch it. There’s too many eyes on the street with loose-enough lips for spare change, but he locks the doors anyway. 

Detective Maria Hill is waiting for him on the curb outside of Thirteen, standing wet and frazzled under the sign, the broken second ‘e’ of the xenon gaslight flickering in and out in a fluorescent strobe that matches the rain. Maria should have packed an umbrella. It wasn’t like one of _“The City’s finest”_ to be so unprepared. There wasn’t too many things left that couldn’t be anticipated. But then again, anything to do with Barnes was nothing if not part of the small elite pool of “the unexpected.” And that included the idea that Barnes had found his way to a place like this on a Tuesday. But Barnes was apparently in there. Maria had called Sam with the tip that Barnes had come in about a half hour before the end of his shift and he’d dropped everything to come straight away. Sam had almost brought Carol with him, this wasn’t her case but she was good back up, but Hill had asked that Sam come alone. He told Danvers where he was headed—he’s not stupid enough to go in without someone tracking him, even if this job is a little off the books. Maria is still in the clothes she wore when she left the station a couple of hours ago, suit untailored and off the rack, and though Sam can smell alcohol on her he can tell that whatever she’s had has worked through her system enough already. She’s sober enough when he gets to her though, which means this, her being at Thirteen, was a social call and maybe that means Sam’s luck is turning.

“He still in there?” Sam asks her, even as he’s pulling open the dull black glass of the door like he’s already long-since resigned to go in anyway, and she nods.

“He’s been in the private room for a bit. One of Sharon’s bulls is holding him in there.”

“That’s cooperative of her,” Sam says incredulously. He likes Sharon, she runs a clean business and she and Hill have had this on-and-off thing for ages, but she likes cops in her establishment about as much as she likes rats.

“She doesn’t know I called you,” Maria admits and Sam nods.

“I appreciate you doing it. She still mad?” Sam relaxes his grip on the door but doesn’t let it close. A sign to Maria that he’s sympathetic to her plight, enough to not rush inside while she’s in the middle of telling it, but that his priority is inside so she needs to make this snappy.

Maria groans and throws her head back, her body ridge in frustration. “She’s being unreasonable. I didn’t order the fucking raid.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. The raid on Thirteen had been about a week and a half ago. They didn’t find anything, of course, Sharon’s either too smart or too clean, but they had made a mess of the place and broke a lot of the tech. “Did you warn her about it?” Sam asks.

“I didn't even know about it,” Maria says, and Sam ignores that the correct cop answer was actually: ‘I wouldn’t have, and even if I did she should have nothing to hide.’ Sam can’t really blame her though. It’s hard to date in The City without getting your principles a little dirty. 

“She doesn’t believe you, huh?” Maria shakes her head. She bites a hangnail off of her finger and then spits it away. “You think bringing me in to arrest a customer is going to help?”

“No,” Maria scoffs, “But it’s been ten days and I doubt she can get any madder.” Maria steps forward, grabs the knob herself, and opens the door for Sam letting out the smoke, light, and pulsating thump of the music inside.

“Hill, they can always get madder,” Sam says stepping inside and feeling his senses be assaulted with stimulation. It’s disorientating but Sam keeps his mind on the solid things, the ground, his gun holstered at his hip, the taste of bubble gum in the air and soon the lights and noise adjust around Sam so he can move with confidence in the space. Maria is behind him by only a few steps but catches up to him quickly, her own body and senses too familiar with the club to be disoriented in it, and puts a hand on Sam’s elbow to lead him to the bar.

The place looks like it’s still cleaning up after the raid, Sam notices that some of the tech in the back like the magnet wall and the neon cages are off. The club looks different without the full set of lights. The overhead strobes still work and the mainstage still steadily ticks through its rainbow rundown of colors, but without the dazzling centerpiece of the bar’s usual backlight to make the bottles shine like crystal, the bar itself is rather lackluster. Less like a dream and more like a saloon, something that aliens might have built on a new frontier land—if either of those things existed. But the place still has customers. Sam guesses that they aren’t really there for all the bells and whistles Sharon usually has up anyway, and at least there aren’t any smashed windows or broken glass on the floor. They should be back in full swing by the end of the month.

Sharon is manning the bar, her long blonde hair braided into a crown and her petite body in a men’s suit that hangs tight in the right places. Sharon is leaned over the bar, talking low to one of the dancers, but the second he and Maria are in hearing range Sharon and the girl clam up. Sharon glares and Sam feels bad for Maria but he’s glad that the look isn’t aimed directly at him.

“What’s this?” Sharon spits, “Another raid?”

“It’s just Sam, Ronnie,” Maria says, “Two cops isn’t a raid.”

“Two cops is two too many. You’re lucky I let you in here. A decision I am rapidly reconsidering.”

“I’m off the clock,” Maria says, “And Sam won’t be here long. He’s on a case.”

“I’m looking for a guy,” Sam says, pulling out his pad and lighting it up with a projection of Bucky’s face, “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“That’s him,” The dancer says, pointing at the rotating hologram of Bucky’s too pleased mugshot. Sharon glances at the girl but gives her nothing more than a withering glare before turning back to Sam.

“Yeah. He’s here. What of it?” Sharon is reluctant to help them but she seems interested in getting rid of Barnes which leads Sam to believe she must have spoken to him for longer than two seconds.

Sam puts his pad away. “He’s a person of interest in an ongoing investigation against Alexander Pierce.”

“Pierce?” Sharon snarls the name like it burns to have it in her mouth. “I don’t need his mess in my establishment.”

“Then let me clean it up for you,” Sam offers, giving a small smile to the dancer who flutters her eyelashes back at him.

Sharon is measuring Sam when he looks at her again. She concedes, waves her hand towards the dancer and says, “He’s in the back room. One of my bouncers was about to throw him out anyway. Darcy take Detective Wilson to The Pynk Room.”

Darcy, the dancer, hops off the barstool and leads Sam away. Maria tries to follow him but Sharon stops her with a shove back. The two of them aren’t touching, they’re only standing a foot apart, and they’re glaring at each other with something primal and angry. Maria doesn’t even break the eye contact to look at Sam when she tells him to go ahead. He listens to her, follows Darcy towards a hall of mirrors and lets the two love birds glare it out.

The paint on the door to the Pynk Room looks like a marshmallow peep barfed cotton candy on it. Sam tries the knob and finds it locked. He looks at Darcy who shrugs and says, “Steve’s been in there with him for a while. We figured he was putting up a fight or he passed out or something.” Sam nods and directs her back down the hall.

“I got it from here. You can get back to work. I’ll have him out in a jiff.”

Darcy looks at the door with interest, like maybe she’d much rather stay and see something gruesome happen, but in the end she listens to Sam and exits through the club’s ridiculous hall of mirrors.

Sam _could_ put his ear to the door, try and discern what’s going on in the room, but he doesn’t really care. All that matters is that Fury has been breathing down his neck about the Pierce case and Bucky is in there and Sam needs him out and in cuffs. Sam takes a step back and then kicks the door in, splintering some of the pink wood, and Sharon is definitely not going to like that. As the door swings open, Sam realizes he could have just gone and asked Carter for the key but where’s the fun in that?

Sam loves solving cases, putting clues together, making the streets safe--all of those things are very important aspects of his job. But his favorite part of the job is kicking in doors. The feel of his steel toed boots connecting with the door, the sound of the wood cracking, the spray of splinters from the impact, there are few things in his job that are actually _fun_ and this is one of those.

Also fun: seeing Bucky Barnes helpless and dumb-looking when Sam barges in on him. Sharon’s bull is there, fully dressed and standing over Bucky like he’s ready to choke him—maybe Sam got here just in time. Barnes is in a lacking state of dressed: shirtless, the garment balled up on the floor next to him and his coat at his feet, his pants unbuttoned—and Sam isn’t entirely sure in this lighting but they look stained—and his metal arm pinned above his head in magni-cuffs.

Sam isn’t sure exactly what all went down behind these doors: which activities had rendered Barnes into such a disheveled state and by whom. Sam’s well-trained to survey a scene and form conclusions, but Barnes has never been that easy. Watching The Bull wrap himself around Barnes on sheer instinct during the bust is certainly interesting, but its not exactly infallible proof either that the bull might have more to do with the stains on Barnes than he should. Sam doesn’t really care though. Not if Barnes getting his rocks off in a flesh joint doesn’t help Sam solve his case. Really he’s just glad Barnes is already subdued and cuffed. The kid has run before. Not always, but sometimes, when he’s feeling like a chase. 

Speaking of, almost as impressive as getting Barnes cuffed in the first place, is the hardware that holds him. Steel-enforced electromagnetics aren’t a commonly issued form of restraint. Even Sam has to remember to grab a pair from inventory whenever he’s angling to bring Barnes in. Hill was right when she said Sharon keeps her bulls prepared.

“Step away,” Sam says to the bull, holstering his gun because he definitely doesn’t need it with Bucky in this state. Bucky glares at him.

“What’s this about?” The Bull asks, body still positioned to block Sam’s access to Barnes, shielding the kid between the guy’s own wall of muscles and the actual wall behind them.

Sam definitely does not have time for this shit; he flashes the blonde behemoth his watch, the device lighting up in electric blue with the TCPD seal and his badge number. The Bull puts his hands up, finally takes two reluctant steps back from Barnes, but looks no less angry with Sam’s intrusion. He’ll have to tell Sharon to send him a bill for the door. Sam approaches Bucky and picks his jacket off the floor, searching it.

“I strike you speechless, Barnes?” Sam asks, turning out the pockets and finding nothing. “You’re not usually this quiet.” Sam expects a reaction out of Bucky for that but he remains silent.

“He doesn’t understand you,” The Bull cuts in. “You can’t just come bursting in here.”

Sam checks the inner lining of the coat for hidden pockets--there are some but these are empty too. Barnes doesn’t even have his gun on him, which is unusual as much as it is unfortunate. Sam was hoping to find _something_. Barnes always has _something_ that Sam can bring him in for. Sam tosses the coat at Bucky and turns to the Bull.

“He give you anything? Something to hide?”

“Am I under arrest?” Sam lets himself roll his eyes—oh goody one of _those_ guys. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have to answer you unless I’m under arrest.”

“No,” Sam says and holds out his hand palm up to Steve, “you’re not under arrest. But he might be. So gimme the key to those cuffs.”

Barnes is struggling to put on his coat one armed with the other cuffed above his head. He pauses in his struggle to look between Sam and The Bull. “Sir,” Bucky says, very small like a lost kitten mewling and where the tone makes Sam grimace it makes the Bull’s eyes go soft and a little wet. After the one word, the fewest words Sam has ever heard from Bucky that wasn’t a curse, Bucky stops talking.

“This is a private establishment,” The Bull says, looking back at Sam, the glare much harsher now that Bucky’s put on the doe-eyes, “and no one has called you.”

“I did,” Sharon Carter, hair messed up in the back and her lipstick smeared, says from the doorway. The Bull looks shocked.

“What happened to you?” The Bull asks her with a level of familiarity that Sam certainly wouldn’t try to use on his boss.

Sharon’s eyes scan the room in seconds and she replies, “I was going to ask you the same question.”

Maria comes rushing up behind her, gun out as she side steps Sharon and enters the room. She has Carter’s shade of lipstick on her collar. Sam’s glad they could make up so quick.

“Your boy won’t give me the keys to the cuffs,” Sam explains, nodding to Bucky who has snatched up the half full bottle of champagne from the table and started drinking straight from it.

“Steve,” Sharon says, commanding, “cooperate with officer Wilson. I want this punk out of my club.”

Steve looks like he’s about to start throwing punches. He doesn’t. He takes off the chain around his neck, one key dangling from it, and tosses it to Sam. Sam unlocks Bucky from the wall, takes the champagne out of his flesh hand, and cuffs both his hands behind his back before lifting him up. Barnes’ coat hangs off him awkwardly on the left side, Sam having forgot to let him get it on the rest of the way before cuffing him. Sam pushes him towards the door—he won’t be cold in the cruiser.

“Make sure you get him someone he can speak to,” Steve puts it like a threat and it’s with a hint of amusement that Sam realizes it is.

“Don’t you worry,” Sam says, hustling Bucky out the door, “he and I are gonna speak plenty.” 

For a flash of a moment, Steve looks visibly troubled by Sam’s statement, which is kind of hilarious since the idea that the TCPD would proceed with interrogations whether Bucky understood them or not is a pretty standard one. Most cops don’t like the inconvenience of a babbling perp. Bucky knows this first hand because he’s tried to pull this shit before in other precincts. But Wilson knows Bucky, has been hauling his ass in for years from the day Alexander had made his lurking presence in Bucky’s life legal. There’s no way for Steve to know that though. But still, it’s one thing to be nice about a babbling fuck; it’s a whole other level when Steve acts like he’s about to protest—to demand an appointed translator on Bucky’s behalf while spouting off some bullshit platitude at Wilson about the rights of non-City speakers. Wilson’s an overall alright guy, but everyone has their limits and Bucky knows, also from experience, that Wilson’s was already stretched pretty thin whenever Bucky was around. That’s usually a point of pride for Bucky under any other circumstances. 

Bucky may have wanted to play a game with Steve, but that didn’t mean he wanted Steve to get arrested for belligerence or whatever official term the TCPD has for getting their panties in a twist. Steve had been nice to him. And Bucky definitely doesn’t want Steve to end up overnight in a cell. At least not if it’s not together. Bucky can’t get laid again tonight if Steve spends it in lockup. So Bucky relaxes his body. Goes submissive in a different way so that Wilson can push him more easily out the door. 

On their way out the door, they pass Darcy, glaring from the bar, who takes the time to spit on Bucky’s face as they pass. Sam laughs.

“What did you do to her?”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Bucky says, voice quiet. He rubs his shoulder onto his cheek to wipe off the spit haphazardly. He’s quiet even in the car.

*

It’s a slow night, and it’s late, so the station isn’t loud or even crowded when they get up to the holding cell. The whole end of this side of the building is too teal, the ceramic tiles that scatter up the walls and the lingering stink of chlorine in the grout still leftover from when the structure used to house the community pool. Carol is still at her desk typing away, logging case files until a lead on one of her opens comes in. She stops her work and smiles at Sam when they enter, leans far back in her chair and puts her feet up on her desk.

“What happened to his shirt?” She asks. “Did you get him on public indecency?”

“Just thought I’d show you fine folks in blue a little appreciation,” Bucky replies, smug enough to smile even as Sam cuffs him to an overly orange chair that smells of bakelite. The plastic is cold, hard and unforgiving and Bucky’s coat hangs awkwardly off of one side of his body. 

“I want my lawyer,” Bucky says, lounging back in the chair next to Sam’s desk--a place he’s been in so many times now he’s become comfortable despite the lack of amenities.

“You’re not under arrest,” Sam crosses his arms and stares down at Bucky, “you’re being detained until the owner of the club decides to press charges or not.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Bucky scoffs, scruffing at the tile with the toe of his shoes just because he knows how much the squelch of the rubber tip against the floor annoys Wilson.

Sure enough, Sam grits his teeth, eyes squinting hard at Bucky like if he just looks long enough he might be able to finally figure him out. “I find that hard to believe,” Sam says.

“The chief wants to see you,” Carol says, taking her feet off the desk and pulling up her next report on her pad. Carol’s one of the few City cops that often comes to work in non-standard issue wear. Bucky’s been hauled in enough times to have witnessed a surprising parade of Carol’s footwear, from combat boots to even the occasional stiletto when she’s feeling particularly perverse or trying to make some sort of statement. It’s not standard code, frowned upon even; but Carol gets away with the spike of them because she can run in just about anything—allegedly. Bucky’s never seen it, but he respects anyone who knows their Manolos. 

Bucky tilts his chair back further to take in the sharp slope of the new pair of thigh-riders Danver’s has crossed under the table. He’s going to be here for a while, he might as well take in the few fragments of art. The slope of Carol’s ankles are too delicate for Bucky’s tastes, but the leather is smooth, so well-polished that the black of it shines, and Bucky starts to salivate a bit anyway. He could definitely work his mouth over the leather of the sole. The material looks like it came straight out of the I-9, supple and soft. He wonders if Steve has ever shopped in the I-9, if he has access to that kind of quality leather. Maybe Bucky should stop over there tomorrow and buy Steve a nice pair of boots. Ones that Bucky could kneel in front of and keep clean for him with his tongue. He can already taste the boot oil. Hear the low rumble of Steve’s praises as he tells Bucky how good and dirty he is. Tells him everything his mouth is good for. 

“Stop staring at Danvers,” Wilson warns him gruffly, and it snaps Bucky out of his train of thought too quickly; leaves Bucky without his usual comeback other than an insolent grin.

“Didn’t think she was your type, Barnes,” Wilson gets in and Bucky’s lips twist up even further. 

“You don’t even know the half of my type, _Officer_.”

Sam looks like he’s about to chew Bucky out, face scrunching up in a vague mixture of exasperation and exhaustion, but a rap on the glass overlooking the room pulls his attention instead and Bucky huffs. It’s bound to be a long night. After the warm glow of the club, the dull overhead fluorescents bite sharply at his senses, he’s chained to a mid-century knock off, and he’s already _bored_. 

*

Sam’s pretty much had it with Bucky Barnes’ shit. If the TCPD didn’t need his cooperation so badly—if _Sam_ didn’t need his cooperation so badly—to finally take down Alexander Pierce’s tower of an empire, then he would have found some reason to throw the kid into The Network years ago. Or given him 20 credits to go spend in someone else's district, to become someone else's' problem. Anyone but Sam’s. Sure, in some ways Bucky was just your average harmless narcissist, the kind of pretty rich boy that prowled the streets for petty misdemeanors to give a false layer of substance to his privileges. That may have been ‘cute’ when he was a teenager, but that kind of street punk bullshit had ceased to be amusing the moment the kid turned twenty-one and then just kept going, ticking off the years that Sam had known him wasting all his money and charm on the hours between sunset and dawn. 

At least the knock on the glass gives him something else to temporarily focus on. Sam looks behind him and sees Fury staring at him through the window of his office. Sam takes a deep breath and claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Sit tight,” he says. By the time he’s in the office, Fury is already closing the blinds, creating the two-way mirror effect on the other side.

“Should I sit down?” Sam asks.

“What is Barnes doing here?” Nick asks, never one to dance around what’s bothering him. Sam leans against the door, shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs.

“Got a call from Club Thirteen. He was causing a disturbance.”

“That’s a hell of a coincidence,” Fury says, beginning a slow pace across the room. Fury likes movement--Sam figures it’s because he’s been shot at too many times to stay in one place for too long. He’s not sure that idle pacing while gearing up to rip Sam a new one is really enough to discourage any sniper but as many times as he’s been shot, Fury has survived so Sam doesn’t question it. “Club Thirteen?” Sam doesn’t answer--Fury hasn’t technically asked the question yet. “Where’s Hill?”

“She’s off duty,” Sam says, “Barnes made a mess of their back room. She offered to help clean up.”

“How long before I got to deal with Sitwell coming in to rescue your half-naked punk?”

“Barnes hasn’t called him yet. He might have lost his phone leaving the club.”

Fury stops his pacing at that and keeps his head down but even still Sam can tell the man is trying to school a smile. Once Fury has his stoic manner back he continues his movements. Exactly twenty steps one way, and then back the other across the room never straying too far from Sam at the door.

“You’ve been trying to turn him for months now. You still think he’d go turn coat for us?”

“Barnes is a party boy. He likes danger and drugs, but he doesn’t like Pierce. I just need the right angle. Enough time alone with him to make him see it from our side.”

“You need to start looking at other options, Sam,” Fury’s one eye pins Sam where he stands.

“The wife is too obvious and the sister is too young,” Sam explains for what feels like the tenth time--he’s a man of principal. “Barnes is already in bad with Pierce but the guy underestimates him. Bucky is smarter than he looks.”

Fury stops in front of his window and nods to where Bucky is sitting next to Sam’s desk, “He’s trying to put on his coat backwards.”

Sam almost doesn’t want to look but the idea of seeing Bucky in an embarrassing wrestling match with his own expensive clothing outweighs his need for Fury to take Bucky seriously as a witness. Bucky appears to be trying to wear the coat like a makeshift blanket--he’s probably freezing in the station.

“Just let me keep working him,” Sam asks even as his eyelids feel too heavy to stay open--Sam wonders if Bucky is this exhausting with everyone or if Sam is just special. “I’m close to a break through with him. I know it.”

“Keep your options open, is all I’m saying,” Fury says stepping back from the window and over to his desk. “We’ve lost contact with the agent on the inside. They missed their last check in with their handler. We need another guy on our side in there to bring Pierce down.”

“Bucky’s our guy,” Sam insists, “he’s not like the goons. He’s smart and he has some semblance of a conscience.”

Fury waves Sam towards the door. “I heard you. Just making sure you understand the stakes.” Sam puts his hand on the door but before he can open it Fury adds, “If Sitwell gets here tell him I’m out. I do _not_ need that headache right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam agrees, and shuts the door on his way out. The window stays a mirror, whatever Fury is about to get up to in there he doesn’t want to be looked in on. It could be some top secret job or maybe he just wants to take a nap. If it’s the latter, Sam can’t blame him.

*

Bucky doesn’t really “sit still” or “sit tight” or “wait” at all very well and being chained to Wilson’s desk again for the third time in as many weeks doesn’t give him any desire to start now. He fidgets, shifting in the seat, bringing his legs up and under himself, before putting them on the ground again. He aches when he moves and rather than encouraging him to keep still it spurns him on, every sharp pang of his body reminding him of the cruel use Steve got out of him. Bucky presses his flesh hand into the bruise forming on his pec drawing a hiss out of himself.

“You need any ice?” Carol asks, not looking up from her work.

Bucky leans over the desk, rests his chin on his metal arm and smiles at her. “I’m good, Danvers. How are you doing? How’s the wife?”

Carol’s eyes flick up from her pad to Bucky but she doesn’t move her head, doesn’t turn to give him her full attention, and then looks back down and starts typing again. “She’s doing days, I’m doing nights. But we both have a shared day off every week.”

“That’s sweet,” Bucky says. If he stares at his metal arm hard enough he can see traces of Steve’s finger prints, even some from his mouth. Bucky hopes his neck will bruise in the shape of Steve’s hand. He has definitely got to get back to the club after this. “Can we do something about the draft in here?”

“No,” Carol says, flatly. Bucky rolls his eyes and starts to pull on his coat to use it as a blanket. Steve’s body had been so warm pressed into him, almost a blinding kind of heat and now without it or his shirt, Bucky is feeling a shiver he doesn’t like. It feels like the colder he is the further the memory of Steve’s hands are.

“Any interesting cases lately?”

She stops typing, something he hadn’t expected, and even turns around in her chair to face him, smiling in an unearned triumphant way that they must teach in police academy.

“Just one, actually,” She says, “you see there’s this drug kingpin my partner and I have been trying to nail for ages now. Real nasty guy.”

Bucky grimaces and makes no effort to hide it. “Pass,” He says and is, promptly, ignored.

“This guy is bad,” She continues, “they say he had his own son mutilated. Put a bomb in his car and expected him to die. Settled for just taking a limb.”

“I hear that kid’s doing real well now,” Bucky says and he knows he sounds petulant and unconvincing--but this night has ended with him chained to a police desk and not in a cage in Steve’s sex dungeon so he figures he’s entitled to a sour mood. “I hear he learned his lesson about fucking with a guy he’s only related to by marriage.”

Wilson comes out of the Chief's office and walks up to the vending machines at the other end of the room. Wilson scans his watch and two sodas rattle out of the machine. When Sam bends over to pick them up, Bucky notes that he has a little hitch in his stomach--maybe he’s been punched there recently. Sam hides it, brings the two sodas over, setting one on the desk for himself and then handing the other to Danvers—after dangling it in front of Bucky’s nose for a minute first, of course. Sam settles into his chair, pops the tab, and takes a drink from the can so long it’s probably half empty by the time he sets it down.

“So,” Sam begins, “what’s a guy like you doing in a club like Thirteen?”

Bucky’s brain plays a short highlight reel of the things he did in The Pynk Room before he responds. The memories make him smile--like he’s full of bubbles or something. “I needed a night out. Somewhere new. What about you, Wilson? You ever think of getting yourself a girl? Maybe even just a hobby?”

“And miss out on these little dates with you? I couldn’t possibly.” There’s Sam’s version of that smug police academy smile.

“You couldn’t handle me, Wilson,” Bucky says wistfully, “you know why?”

“I handled you into my cruiser and this station just fine,” Sam replies but there’s no ire in it. He really must be tired. Bucky can relate--he feels like he could fall asleep in this uncomfortable desk chair right now. He’s had a long night and no stimulants to keep him going.

He’s accepted by now that the drugs aren’t going to kick in—he probably drank from the wrong champagne glass and the sample he intended for himself is soaked into the fuzzy carpet of the club. This is disappointing enough on its own until he realizes that Steve _definitely_ took his drug, Bucky made damn sure of that, and now he’s going to be enjoying it without Bucky.

“It’s because we’re too similar,” Bucky finishes. Carol laughs. Sam doesn’t--he just glares at Bucky like he knows he’s right. “Yeah,” Bucky laughs, flashing his own smug grin at Sam, “I’ve got your number Wilson. There’s nothing like a good punch, is there?”

Sam is a fidgety person, he’s good at keeping stone faced and silent when he wants to, but Bucky can read him well enough to know he’s gotten under Wilson’s armor with the truth and he’s not going to stop burrowing down. Sure, Bucky is no detective like Sam but he doesn’t need to be to recognize that same burn in Sam’s eyes like Bucky does in his own reflection. They’ve got the same needs and where Bucky gets his from pissing off Peirce and playing mind games with hot bouncers in the backs of skin clubs, Sam probably gets his from his job. There’s no other logical reason that someone would go after Peirce this hard.

“If that’s a threat-” Sam starts and Bucky cuts him short with a laugh.

“You’re not listening,” Bucky says condescending, “I’m not gonna punch you. I said we’re similar. That’s why we wouldn’t work in bed. We’re both receivers.”

Carol stands, pushing her chair back hard and making a loud squeaking noise with it that hurts Bucky’s ears. If it bothers Sam he doesn’t show it. She snatches up her bag. “I’m going to evidence. Gotta log some stuff.” She doesn’t move right away. She waits for Sam to give her a nod, a go ahead, and then she heads out into the hall.

“So we don’t team up in bed then,” Sam says, finally, and Bucky thought for sure he’d annoyed him into silence, but he’s often underestimating Wilson’s determination. “How about in court?”

“Jesus this again,” Bucky groans, rolling his head back and sneering at the ceiling. “You guys want to fuck with Peirce? You go for it. I like a little violence thrown my way but I’m not trying to die right now. Thanks.”

“We could protect you,” Sam says and Bucky wonders if he can make himself puke on command. “Your mom and your sister too. Get you a new identity, life, district-”

“I _like_ my identity,” Bucky snaps, “and my slice of the city. My life even, most of the time. Not really looking to trade down. Not for that half assed circus you lot call protection either. Peirce has got power. He doesn’t know how to utilize it properly, most of the time, but he’s got it. In all the districts—full City wide. And I’m not stupid enough to turn on him for the sake of some detective,” Bucky rattles his metal arm in the magnicuff to emphasize his point, “whose sole motive in life is to cock block me.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up in interest and Bucky, immediately, regrets bringing it up. “So that’s why you got all quiet and doe-eyed? All ‘please help me, mister’.” Wilson’s tone is mean and not in a way that Bucky likes. Bucky didn’t call Steve “mister.” He’s not a Dickensian orphan. He called him “sir” and as annoyed as he is at this inaccurate and small detail Bucky is a little curious about “mister” and any other names that might get Steve’s hands on him. “Sir” was just the first one he tried—if he could only get to Steve and past this very small I-Don’t-Speak-City obstacle he could try out a few others.

“I want my lawyer,” Bucky says, pulling his coat tighter around himself, “you know his number by now, I’m sure.” Sam waits a few moments to be sure that Bucky has really shut down on this before he gets up and goes to the public phone by the fire exit and makes the call. The second Sitwell gets him out of this, Bucky is headed right back to club Thirteen. He doesn’t have his phone, or his shirt, or his drugs, but all of these things are excuses. He wants to see if Steve is still there—how the drug is treating him.

Sitwell has him out in less than thirty minutes but Bucky suspects that’s more about Wilson not wanting to deal with him for too long than any mad lawyer skills Sitwell has. Bucky hadn’t even been under arrest, technically, which meant he should have been able to get up and walk away anytime he wanted. If Bucky had just left, Wilson couldn’t stop him. But then again, Bucky also knew Wilson well enough by now from their frequent station rendez-vous that he knew Wilson might have let him walk, but he wouldn’t have taken the cuffs off first. Sometimes the TCPD’s little power plays weren’t all that different from Pierce’s. In spirit anyway. In execution they were far less threatening. Even still, Bucky wasn’t about to go wandering any part of The City this close to midnight half naked and cuffed. Bucky was reckless, but he wasn’t suicidal.

At least once Sitwell gets there Bucky is finally able to put his coat on properly, shrugging into it as he passes right by Sitwell waiting to get Bucky’s things out of holding. Bucky doesn’t have anything in holding—doesn’t even have his phone or his smokes on him. Sitwell comes running up behind him, almost gets hit with the door as Bucky rushes out of it and onto the street. Bucky hopes he can get a cab to take him to Thirteen—he doesn’t remember the address himself but he’s sure any good cabby will know it if Bucky just gives them a name.

But the moment his shoes hit the wet slick of the street, Bucky sees that he won’t be catching a cab to Thirteen tonight, not yet anyway. Peirce’s long black car is on the curb, engine running in steady puffs of steam as the exhaust hits the rain. The motor growls, thick and expensive, declaring that it has just enough money stuffed inside it to be dangerous. Just like Pierce. Pierce isn’t a man who likes to wait, but the car is definitely idling there, hovering brazenly outside the open mouth doors of his enemies of the worn brick building that is the TCPD station. And if that wasn’t evidence enough that he’s waiting on Bucky, Sitwell rushes out and opens the car door for him. Bucky considers, for just a moment, that he could ignore Sitwell, and the car, and the lecture from Alexander and just walk off on his own. But he’s still shirtless and there’s going to be a talk sooner or later, and every new gossip mag that flashes his disheveled holograph after a rough night on the town is another nail in any public defense coffin that Bucky might still need some day if he ever really does need to push back against Pierce. Bucky knows it’s safer to only ever walk just past the lines of his cage. That Bucky only gets to appear to rebel as much as he does because Alexander allows it. Keeps just enough slack in Bucky’s leash that Bucky can’t fully feel the choke hold of it unless he veers off course, lunges unexpectedly. There’s rain and eyes everywhere and he’s still cold, so Bucky ducks his head and slides into the back seat of the limousine with a sigh, Sitwell closing the door after him and then climbing into the front with the driver. The partition goes up and now it’s only Bucky and the two men sitting across from him, their own brand of glare aimed his way.

Brock looks like he’s ready to punch Bucky’s lights out and the way he keeps rubbing at his knuckles gives the impression he just might. Brock has a small bruise forming on the left side of his jaw—most likely where he got a beating for letting Bucky ruin the drop. It makes Bucky smile and Brock snarls, bares his teeth, like the animal he is. Now that he’s thinking on it, because it might be happening in just a few minutes, Bucky doesn’t think a punch from Brock would be all that satisfying. He’s been punched by both Jack and Brock a lot and maybe it’s only because Steve’s hands, teeth, and voice are at the forefront of his mind, but Bucky thinks that they’re actually pretty shit at fighting. Steve knew how to make it hurt right and now that Bucky’s tasted fine wine he can’t see himself going back to the bottom shelf brand of violence that Brock and Jack have to offer.

Peirce’s glare is tired but unsurprised, like Bucky has lived down to Alexander’s low expectations of him. His hands are clasped, gently, over the top of his cane and he’s wearing a heavy coat and scarf even though the temperature in the car is controlled and practically boiling. Bucky feels comfortably warm in here and he’s not wearing a shirt—Pierce must be sweating an ugly stain into his fine suit.

Bucky shrugs his coat off and sprawls out on the seat, partly to show the men how little he cares about their presence and also to show off his pretty bruises. Someone should admire Steve’s handy work—Bucky is a canvas and he shutters, pleasantly, to think of what a masterpiece Steve could make of him if only he could get back to Thirteen.

“Lose your shirt?” Peirce asks, as ever not trying to hide his displeasure with Bucky’s antics.

“Lost a lot of things,” Bucky sighs. Peirce wants Bucky to say “thank you” for sending Sitwell, for bailing him out, but Bucky isn’t grateful. He might be if Peirce had done it out of some kind of familial affection, or even just as a favor to Winnie, but he knows that Peirce wouldn’t be here himself if he wasn’t after something.

“Give him a shirt,” Peirce huffs, not breaking his glare on Bucky while Brock looks about the car to follow the order. He takes too long and Peirce snarls at him, “Just give him yours.” Brock doesn’t like this order, but he follows it anyway, pulling off his shirt and tossing it to Bucky. Bucky sneers at it, holds it in his metal hand and doesn’t put it on. He doesn’t want to smell like Brock. “It makes me sick to look at you,” Peirce says like it’s any kind of motivation for Bucky to dawn the garment. “I’m not up for your games, James,” and with that Bucky pulls it on, too big as it is, because he wants this conversation to be over more than he cares about anything else right now. “Where have you been?” Pierce asks once he deems Bucky clothed enough to speak to.

“Out,” Bucky replies, opening the little bar next to his seat and fishing out a glass for himself. “Partying. My usual places. I was at Club LowKey for a bit.” Bucky doesn’t want them sniffing around Thirteen—he wants to keep his step father out of all that. Away from Steve, and the cuffs, and the Pynk Room; that’s all Bucky’s now and he won’t share it, won’t let Peirce ruin it like he does everything else.

“We checked there,” Brock grits out, back to rubbing his knuckles now, ready to punch when Peirce gives the word, “we couldn’t find you. We looked for hours.”

“Seems weird to brag about your own incompetence,” Bucky says, scooping some ice into his glass. Brock looks like he’s ready to pop a vein in his forehead.

“You almost ruined a very important deal for me tonight, James,” Peirce says, tone even, anger controlled, “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Bucky pours himself a generous glass of whiskey from the mini-bar and holds it up to Peirce, as if toasting, and says, “You should hire smarter goons,” before he tosses it back. As if to prove his point, that Brock is all brawn and no brain, Brock lunges forward only to be stopped by Peirce slapping his cane to Brock’s chest and keeping him in his seat. If Bucky ran things he’d hire some folks with a little more finesse and self control. T’Challa probably never has to deal with shit like this; he’s a man who knows how to run an empire.

“Where are the pills, James?” Peirce asks it with the cadence of someone who has already asked this question too many times—perhaps for Peirce asking once _is_ too many.

“Did you try the pharmacy?” Bucky pours himself another drink but lets this one sit before taking a sip from it. He’ll nurse this one--he doesn’t want to be too messed up when he sees Steve again. Steve is bound to be in a bad way if the pills are so precious and important and he’ll need Bucky to have a clear head. So Bucky is going to be, mostly, a good boy for Steve’s sake. “I lost those too. Couldn’t grab anything before I left.”

Peirce closes his eyes and takes a deep inhale and exhale that’s so long Bucky has time to savor another sip. “But they are in tact?” 

“I didn’t even get a chance to try them when the cops came,” Bucky says and it’s not a lie--it’s just a version of the truth that Peirce wants to hear, the one that will get Bucky out of this car.

“That’s good,” Peirce says, “for your sake.” Brock smiles at that and that’s what makes Bucky uncomfortable, makes him grip the glass a little tighter, sit up straighter in his seat. 

“What are they?” Bucky asks, voice lazy but still curious. “This is a lot of work for your garden variety uppers.”

Peirce looks out his window—not that he can see much through the tint—beyond bored with this conversation and Bucky in general. “The Stark Tower is due to complete construction by the end of the month.” Bucky doesn’t care about that--it’s a fact that he knows if only because Pierce has been grumbling about the project for over a year now, glaring at the skyline where it would stand even before the first brick was laid. “Stark has put a lot of money into that disgusting eye sore. Once it goes on, his little owl app gets downloaded onto every comm in the city. Instantly, everyone will have free, educational, and high speed access to it.” Peirce scrunches his nose up like a bad smell has entered the car. “Information should be free. Global communication is the future.” Bucky’s seen the same ads and interviews with Tony Stark but it’s almost funny to hear Peirce repeat them with such bile in his voice.

“So he builds a tower,” Bucky sighs, lazy and wanting to down his drink just so he can make it to the end of this boring conversation. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Nothing,” Peirce snarls, his calm demeanor cracking as he turns back to Bucky, “you have nothing to do with my business. Yet you keep putting yourself in my way. I’m beginning to grow tired of it.”

“Only beginning?” Bucky wonders what kind of person Peirce expects him to be. Idiot party boy, sure, Bucky puts on that act, but it seems that Peirce expects Bucky to be afraid of him. That’s laughable.

Alexander stomps his cane into the floor, a judge with a gavel calling order in his court. “Those pills are going to make me a lot of money. More importantly, they’re going to undermine that idiot child Stark. So,” Peirce takes a deep breath, calms his tone, “you’re going to get them back before nine a.m. tomorrow.” Peirce pauses to take a look at his watch, “That’s a good nine hours I’m giving you. Do you think you can handle that?”

Besides the fact that there are no pills to get back, not any longer, there’s that Bucky doesn’t _want_ to help Peirce. He took the pills specifically to fuck with him. If doing so ruined his night, or his deal, or his grand plans Bucky doesn’t care—all the better for him. Bucky finishes off the drink in his glass.

“Do I have to?” Bucky whines pitching his voice high and pouting with exaggeration. “I’m tired. It’s been a long night. Can’t you just get more?”

Peirce slaps him. It’s rare that he gets so annoyed with Bucky that he lashes out personally, the fact that he has now, over two meesley pills, tells Bucky just how important they are. His stomach sinks a little in fear--he really isn’t sure he can get them back. He doesn’t know what they are so he can’t replace them. The spot where his flesh meets metal stings--Bucky knows it can’t be, not really, it’s in his head; a phantom burn to remind him what happens when Peirce is angry enough to act himself.

“This deal is worth more to me than you are,” Peirce says and the burn where the slap hit him starts to fade but Bucky keeps his head turned away, “But then I’m sure that’s no surprise to you. I’m sure you know your worth, little as it is, otherwise you would be taking this more seriously.” Bucky presses the empty glass to his face, the melting ice providing a little relief. “So I’ll give you a little more motivation to take it seriously. Something that’s worth more to you than yourself.” Bucky turns his head and looks at Peirce dead on. Peirce smiles, thrilled to have Bucky’s undivided attention. “Rebecca has a few friends over. She’s really becoming quite the young woman these days. As beautiful as her mother. She has your mouth but none of the filth that comes out of it. It would be nice to keep her young for as long as possible though, wouldn’t it? Girls these days grow up so fast.” Something sick curls in Bucky’s lungs, not liking the vague shape that the oil of Pierce’s words were trying to form. It’s only now that Bucky realizes Jack is missing from Peirce’s posse—Rollins and Rumlow usually come and go everywhere as a set. 

“Jack is keeping an eye on them,” Peirce answers the unasked question and Bucky’s stomach sinks. “He might have some friends over later too. Make a real party out of it, as you kids say.” Alexander taps on the partition glass and the limousine pulls up to the curb and stops. “Although I do worry that Rebecca might not like spending the night with Jack’s friends as well as her own. And it would be such a shame to ruin her evening. But then again, I’m sure that once they have the drugs, Jack and his associates will once again have much more important things to do. Do we understand each other?”

Bucky is inclined to stay in the car, keep glaring or maybe leap forward and attack Peirce. But neither of those things would work out for him and certainly not for Becky. Besides, Bucky thinks opening the door, he’s running out of time. 

“Yes, sir,” Bucky mutters, grabbing his coat from the seat and sliding out into the cool night air. The door shuts as the car drives off and Bucky is left staring at the twisted fumes of the exhaust, noting idly how it only takes a flash of a second before the curls of gray smoke are swallowed up by the general City smaug. There’s just so much filth in The City. But the only kind Bucky cares about right now is the pulsating and addictive kind packaged in a six foot five inch frame named Steve. Steve and the body whose blood now contained the only known remnants of whatever new drug Alexander would apparently rape, maim, and kill for. 

It’s no longer a choice. No longer a whim of _want_ , but a life or death kind of need. Bucky has to get back to the club; He’s got to find Steve.

***

Nakia has found Peirce to be something of a paranoid child—always reactive and never proactive. But he’s old, he has roots deep in The City and even a burned stump can grow back, in time, if the roots are strong enough. Calling his organization HYDRA, claiming that to cut one head is to grow two more, is also a little childish by Nakia’s standards. T’Challa, a man of class and skill, doesn’t have a name for his operation--operations don’t really need names. The ones that have them, like HYDRA, only exist to instill an immature notion of fear. A boogeyman that turns out to be a child in a sheet if one only bothers to look at it close enough.

Because of this, infiltrating HYDRA was easy but taking it down from the inside was harder. A paranoid man is harder to de-throne than a smug one and killing him would not be enough. One doesn’t kill a hydra but cutting off its head: it must be killed from the inside, poison it so nothing can grow back in its place.

Nakia is a slow poison, beyond being the perfect spy for T’Challa she knows how to take her time, make her cuts, and when to act. Proactive as opposed to reactive. While working for Pierce she’s learned more than a few things about how he runs his operation and darker things about how he runs his family. She feels for the Barnes women, James as well, and her preference in this mission is to make sure they make it out protected. She doesn’t need to imagine the horrors that might befall them if Peirce’s paranoia was turned on them—Alexander makes his threats overt.

Nakia is in the lab, underground and in the center of The City, searching for samples of Peirce’s stolen formula. She wants something she can take back to T’Challa so a course of action can be made to undermine Pierce before whatever he has planned with the pill can go through. This is when she gets the call, the burner BlackBerry Peirce gives to all of his upper staff buzzing loudly in her pocket. She rolls her eyes in anticipation for whatever annoying task he deems worthy of her efforts. Most of the time it’s getting him coffee, setting up meetings, things she has to smile and pretend to do happily. But since the con with Natasha, he’s asked her to do more serious work, things he would normally trust to Rumlow or Rollins, stupid and incapable as they both are.

The message reads: _Sub contract to take out James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes. Grid Network Identification No.: “Winter-SLD-43”. Must secure 2 pills on his person before completing job. Alert me when done. Deliver directly to me._

She sneers at the message. At least this time he didn’t call her “honey”. He must be in a sour mood. Which tracks if James has his precious drugs and Peirce has elected to have him killed—again. At least this time the hit order had been sent private and direct and not open-posted to the circuit boards like last time. Pierce had learned the hard way after the car bomb fiasco a few years back that open contracts might be cheaper, but they were also messier. Less reliable. And then there was the fact that TPK targets weren’t supposed to continue on _living_ once they had been cut up, shredded, or blown into pieces. 

Nakia had come to realize that part of that might just be the Pierce-kid’s uncanny luck. At least from afar, Barnes seemed ever-charming, armed in an aura that sported a very different kind of teflon than his stepfather. Peirce was all grease and oil until nothing could possibly stick to him, even though no one ever got close enough to touch. In contrast, everyone seemed to be able to touch Bucky. The kid welcomed a hit, kept himself out in the open and preening for anyone to take a shot. And yet nothing ever took him down. Considering the kind of dangerous men Bucky had tangoed with since his relocation to Pierce Tower in C-1, that was downright impressive. The kid had _something_ going for him that was keeping him alive. Even Alexander had seemed to back-burner any further attempts for three years running. Which meant whatever Bucky had done this time had been serious enough for Pierce to decide it was worth the effort. 

Keeping it all off The Grid must mean that Peirce wants it done right this time, and since Nakia has successfully—as far as Alexander thinks—killed for him before he must trust her more than Jack or Brock. At least trusts her enough not to only half-maime the kid and ignite a PR nightmare. She wonders if that means Pierce suspects in someway just how worthless his thugs really are. Men at Pierce’s paygrade wouldn’t have concerned themselves with the details of an open hit, but every contractor east of The Center knew that botch-job had been Rollins. 

Still, even Jack Rollins could probably figure out a way to finish a job if he really tried. Nakia has way better things to do with her Tuesday night than to chase down a Tower kid and stage an assassination, but there’s no way that she’s not about to accept the order first. If the kid really did have samples of the drug on him, then Barnes could still be useful—maybe. But that was only if the morning came and he wasn’t yet dead. 

She sends back an affirmative, and covers up any sign that she was in the lab before exiting. On the plus side, if Barnes has the samples and survives there’s no need for her to scrounge for scraps in the lab. 

Nakia scowls the moment she hits the atrium level, looking out the main doors at the rain. It had been raining when she had arrived at the lab but she had still been hoping there might be a lull in the downpour by the time she had to return to the street, which goes to show just what optimism will get you in The City. 

She won’t take a cab—too risky, Peirce might be tracking her credits. It’s not too far for her to walk—even in the rain—but the problem isn’t distance so much as secrecy. At least Peirce doesn’t think enough of her to have her followed the old fashioned way. Not that a tail would impede her; Nakia’s seen the way HYDRA tail people and she could pick one out as easily as a firework show. Comms, however, remained an ever-present problem. Those eyes were everywhere in the City, lazy and impartial. There would be very little work involved to have her back-traced later by the CCTVs, so she waits until the street sweep of the one closest to her turns away and dashes into a side alley. She finds a fire escape and climbs it until she’s at the highest floor and then climbs onto the roof. She takes off her heels and carries them in her left hand, not eager to make the run and jump dance that lays ahead of her in four inch spikes. 

There’s an entire shadow city above the streets. Comms don’t go up this high and it’s too dark to be seen by any onlookers who might be, for whatever reason, watching the rooftops. From there traveling to the safe house is shorter if not a little more of a work out. She has to make running jumps between buildings, most of them pushed together too tightly to offer any danger of falling. They keep building more housing where there isn’t room in The City, packing people in and leaving them to fend for themselves in these tight cages. That’s why those like Nakia, who thrived in the dark above The City’s toxic glow, always climbed as close as they could to the sky. 

The safe house where she’d left Natasha isn’t in the sky, but in the basement of a boxing club. It isn’t much, just another dank subterranean dwelling in a city swollen past it’s limits, but the manager is an old friend who is always willing to help out any allies of T’Challa’s in a time of need. Not that Natasha is a member of T’Challa’s operation, strictly speaking. But any enemy of Pierce’s is close enough. Besides, Natasha doesn’t ask them for much—maybe just a little company. Natasha seems like a woman who is used to being alone but doesn’t like it. Nakia can sympathize with that and even she’s at least free to come and go from the hideout as she pleases. Nat is supposed to be dead—as far as Pierce is concerned she had been killed by Nakia’s own hand. Natasha can’t be seen by any of HYDRA now or the jig is up for all of them.

She finds Nat at the stove, glaring into a large pot of stew that smells terrible and looks worse. It’s a deep red which Nakia recognizes immediately as the shade of beets. Nakia grimaces and hopes that Nat will not ask her to try any of whatever that is supposed to be. Nat doesn’t look up at Nakia as she slides in through the window but she knows it’s someone trustworthy so she takes her hand off of the gun hidden under the counter. Nakia sits under the window and picks up a towel they keep next to it and cleans up her feet. The rooftops are cleaner than the streets because there is less foot traffic, less bodies moving through and littering it, but they still have the wet slick and oil of the city.

“Busy day?” Nat asks eyes flicking to Nakia’s shoes on the floor next to her. Nakia tosses the towel into the hamper in the bathroom from where she sits, her aim set from the muscle memory of doing this more than a few times a week. She probably doesn’t have to check on Nat as often as she does, but Nat is still, technically, a Federal agent and she’d given up a lot to help T’Challa. Nakia would rather keep her own eyes on her than just leave it to the reports from the runners.

“Peirce was supposed to pass the prototype to the manufacturer today,” Nakia explains walking into the kitchen and sitting at the dining table.

Nat is definitely getting stir-crazy from the isolation, the fear that she’ll be found out and killed for real making her keep her gun close. Nat takes out a large spoon and eats several bites of her concoction straight from the large pot. She leans over the stove and shoves another spoonful into her mouth, a little bit of the beet juice staining her mouth amaranth red, and looks at Nakia expectantly.

“Supposed to?” Nat asks.

Nakia sighs and leans back in her chair, bringing up her legs to tuck them under herself. “There’s been a delay.”

Nat smiles in that cheeky half smile way Nakia has seen a handful of times. “Are you the delay?” Nat pulls off a paper towel, folds it three times, and then sets it on the stove.

“Unfortunately, no,” Nakia says, “it’s more complicated than that.”

“Isn’t it always?” Nat puts the spoon down on the paper towel, the white soaking up the soup and turning it a wine colored purple.

“He wants me to execute a hit order on Barnes,” Nakia watches Nat open a cupboard and pull down a large mug, one that is probably meant for soup but she fills it with water and then pours it into the electric kettle.

“Didn’t he try that already?”

“James made himself more behaved after that failed attempt,” Nakia takes her earrings out and sets them on the dining table. She’ll have to remember to get them before she leaves—she’s left a few pairs here in the last few weeks. “But he’s stolen the drugs. He’s ruined Peirce’s magnum opus only a few days before the Stark Tower is completed.” Nat has been keeping the jewelry Nakia leaves here together for her in a little box by the window but Nakia always forgets to take it with her.

Nat opens a little drawer by the stove and pulls out a bag of green tea and drops it into the soup mug while the water comes to a boil. “So James is the complication,” Nat sighs, “that’s almost a relief to be honest.” Nat looks away from the kettle to Nakia, her half-smile a little more sincere, “I was worried you’d been found out.”

“Me?” Nakia scoffs out a laugh and waves Natasha off. “Don’t be ridiculous. Peirce trusts me enough to ignore me completely. Until he needs something, that is.”

The electric kettle clicks off once the water is at a boil and Nat pours the generous amount into the mug, keeping a half inch of space at the top so it doesn’t spill over when she moves it. “And what he needs now is another hit on James,” Nat infers, “and someone to take the drugs off of him I imagine.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Nakia says, watching Nat pick up the large mug of tea and carefully walk it over to the dining table and set it in front of her. Nakia runs her finger around the rim just to feel the heat of the steam on her chilled hands. “I think you’re going to like it.”

There’s Nat’s half smile again but added to it is that eager gleam in the red head’s eye for when she wants to be put to use. Nat is like Nakia in that way, needing to move, do something, contribute, have a mission. It’s one of the reasons Nakia empathizes with Nat having to be cooped up in the safe house, not allowed to go anywhere and the only thing to do is watch the landlord’s old Zorro VHS tapes and cook beet soup. “Tell me it’s dangerous, please?”

Nakia actually laughs at that. “You get to leave here,” Nakia answers her and there’s a flicker of shock in Nat’s eyes before she schools her face. Nat sits in the dining room chair across from Nakia and leans forward, as if keeping her body that much closer to Nakia’s will get the words into her ears faster. “But you have to keep your face hidden. Peirce is distracted but we can’t take the chance that your face won’t show up on the comms and be sent to him.”

Nat blinks and Nakia thinks she can see the very microsecond that her plan dawns on Nat’s face. “You want me to do the hit on Barnes?”

“I want you to make it look like you’re doing the hit on Barnes,” Nakia clarifies, “There’s no need to actually kill him. Just get the pills and trade them off to me.”

Nat nods, seemingly at peace with this plan, not willing to argue. Maybe it’s because she wants to leave so badly. More than likely it’s because she wants to be useful to the mission—bringing down Pierce—again. Where Nakia is a spy, eyes, ears, and hands quick and unseen as a black cat in the dark, a gatherer of information; Nat is a weapon, a gun that needs to be aimed and fired. All this time in the damp indoors has threatened her with rust. “Sounds simple enough. Are you still tracking his arm?”

Nakia nods. That had been something she had begged Shuri for when she’d fixed up Bucky’s arm. A tracker that could help her keep an eye on Barnes. Shuri had taken a lot of convincing. She’d only really agreed when Nakia insisted it was for the boy’s protection--to make sure Peirce wouldn’t come so close to killing him again. It turns out that’s exactly what she was going to use it for. “I’ll get you a burner phone with the tracker map in it. Be sure to make a show of it, trying to kill him so Peirce doesn’t suspect anything.”

“I’ll need a bike and a helmet,” Nat says, “so I can make noise without revealing my face.”

“I’ll have a runner get everything you need. We’re on a time crunch here; it has to be tonight.” The tea is at the right temperature now and properly steeped. Nakia takes a long sip of it.

“While I’m handling Barnes,” Nat says, “and keeping Peirce distracted what about the girls?”

“I’ll handle the wife and step-daughter,” Nakia replies. “They’re being watched by Rollins. He’ll be easy enough to get rid of. Then I’ll get them out. Might bring them here.”

“Should I put the borscht on ice?” Nat asks and it takes a few moments before Nakia realizes that Nat is talking about her beet soup. Nakia shakes her head.

“No. I think they’ve been through enough already.”

Nat laughs so hard she almost falls out of her chair. Nakia takes her burner out and sends a list to the runner of things she needs him to get her. They have a plan. It’s not her _best_ plan. The whole thing is tainted with its own timeline, last minute and rushed. There’s too many variables in The City. Too many cracks in the pavement and eyes in the walls that make any movement throughout the streets vulnerable to all kinds of unforeseen circumstances. And Nakia knows that Barnes himself can sometimes be the biggest unpredictable factor of all. There’s plenty of things that could go wrong. Hopefully that signature Bucky Barnes charm and luck will hold out for him throughout the night. He seems like a good enough kid; she likes him enough to hope he sees the dawn. 


	3. Unguarded at the Gates

**CHAPTER THREE: Unguarded at the Gates**

Steve spends the first fifteen minutes after the bust looking at the couch in the Pynk Room— the very same blue velvet spread he had defiled one of the club’s customers on not more than twenty minutes before. Steve has never been a particularly impulsive person by nature, but he knows he does, occasionally, have tendencies towards bouts of unrelenting _conviction_ , and that that can sometimes appear close enough to the same thing. 

Still, neither of those things had ever led Steve to a situation like this— fucking some stranger in the barely-there-privacy of the VIP room during business hours. Or any hours. Steve didn’t do casual sex. He didn’t do casual _anything_. Steve knew that his lack of restraint, in part, had to do with the thing with Tony. How after “The Incident” it had felt liberating to let the slivers of his more “specialized” desires be voiced, knowing they wouldn’t really be heard. That there was a certain kind of safety in strangers with foreign tongues. 

That was a part of it. The other part, the unexpectedly larger part, was all due to the kid himself— _kid_ being the operative word. The guy had been _young_. And beautiful. Wide blue eyes with that down slanted turn of his lips, everything about him all round curves jumbled with sharp edges. And the way the kid had _moved_ : sultry but shy, with his “pleases” and his “sirs” and his razor-sharp smile like he knew exactly what Steve wanted and would happily beg Steve to let him deliver. That kind of sudden ache of attraction had never happened to Steve before, not like that. The overwhelming need to utterly possess the beauty of something he saw in front of him. It was just the kid, everything he was, was some brand new form of art; he was perfect. He can’t get the guy out of his head. 

Luckily, business dies down significantly after the police clear out, and Sharon is too distracted by Maria to care, so she asks Steve to close up everything early. Steve agrees easily because Sharon deserves a night of good make up sex, and Steve doesn’t want to leave just in case The Kid comes back; he needs to see him again. The poor guy had looked so distraught when the cops had come. Steve has no idea what such a perfect boy could do wrong, not wrong enough for the TCPD to pick him up at least. But knowing the corruption of the law in The City, it could be anything. They could be holding him for any reason they wanted, sanctioned or not. And then there was the language issue. Steve hadn’t recognized the guy’s particular tongue, something Eastern, maybe, but whatever the kid had been speaking wasn’t one of the more common forms of Babel. He must be from one of the smaller districts around the RU. They likely won’t even find a translator for him until the end of the week— will likely just keep him in holding for days on end, unable to speak and be heard. 

The injustice of it makes Steve’s blood twitch until the room feels hot. The poor kid must be so scared. Steve needs to make sure that he is OK. If he doesn’t see him again tonight, Steve plans to ask Maria where he might have been taken and go to the station himself, see if the TCPD is still so keen to keep him caged when they have Steve to deal with. Tomorrow's his day off anyway and Steve can speak City for hours, as long as he needs to for the cops to decide if the kid is really worth holding. For now, though, the doors are locked and the cash counted out and it’s only Steve in the club. He feels wired, possibly because of the pill the kid had slipped him, but this felt like his normal kind of restlessness and not something drug-induced. Steve feels fine, actually, and wonders if the drug takes a while to kick in—or maybe it was a placebo, something the kid did just to mess with Steve.

Steve cleans. It’s not in his job description exactly—no one expects the club muscle to scrub the counters—but Steve has always enjoyed the routine. There’s a certain kind of control in it, molding the space around him into what he wants it to be, that Steve finds utterly calming. The Pynk Room needs the most care but parts of the club are also still in a bad way, still bent and disheveled from the raid earlier in the month. 

Steve calls Clint, who he knows keeps nocturnal hours, to come over and fix the magnet. Tonight proved that it was not worth it to let it sit broken in the club for another day. The kid had been harmless, but his arm—his arm hadn’t been a regular bone graft. Steve hadn’t recognized the signature of the design—it wasn’t StarkTech—but he had recognized that it was an incredibly advanced piece. And it had been calibrated, hardwired into the mainlines of his central nervous system so acutely that it had to have taken both a genius level developer and an extraordinary neurosurgeon to implant. And that still didn’t begin to touch upon the fact that the metal had been weapons-grade vibranium. The kid’s arm was a _weapon_ —or could be. Most certainly dangerous, even if the body attached to it had the face of a neon angel. Steve has no idea what kind of connections a Babeling kid from the Eastern Block must have to get an arm like that. But it can’t be anything good. 

The club’s magnetic wall had been designed for exactly these reasons—the unexpected. Normally, Sharon has it on and keeps a bouncer on guard at it to check a patron’s guns and weapons—and very rarely their limbs—to keep the club safe. There hadn’t been an attack that day, per se, but it could have gone badly and it _still_ could depending on if the kid came back and brought more trouble with him. Steve might want him—might already be counting all the things he wants to do to that little luscious, lithe body of his, but that doesn’t mean Steve trusts him. Plus, the name the detective had called the kid when he burst through the door— _James Barnes_ —had sounded vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place it. And that bothers Steve. He’s not a man who easily forgets. He has a mind made for the past, trapping in details, dates, and faces to the point he may has well be living there; a man from an earlier time in history. 

Steve spends so much time lost in his head, trying to place ever meeting a James with a face like _that_ , that by the time Clint arrives, Steve has cleaned the Pynk room and made a list of things for Clint to repair in Thirteen. He hands it to him the second the mechanic enters and Clint scoffs at him.

“Hello to you too, Rogers,” Clint teases. Clint looks down at the list, longer than he was expecting it to be and whistles.

“Sorry. I’ve had a night.” Steve explains. Clint scans the paper and turns it over to make sure there isn’t anything on the back.

“Yeah seems like it,” Clint folds the paper up and presses it into his front pocket. Clint makes the sign for “beard” and Steve isn’t sure how he knows that. Maybe he’s seen it before? This is Steve’s first time growing one out but Clint usually has one. He can grow it faster and thicker than the rest of them and because his hair is dark he never has that strange patchy awkward phase of beard growth that blond men, like Steve, have. “That’s coming in nice. Looks good.”

“Thanks,” Steve makes the sign for “thank you”—that one he does know, he knows he knows, but he’s not sure why he feels compelled to use it suddenly. He doesn’t spend too long on the thought. Steve is trying to remember the last time he saw Clint, at what stage his facial hair was at in the growth period. It has to have been in person—Clint “doesn’t trust” comms and makes as few calls as possible on them—but Steve can’t remember seeing Clint since before The Incident with Tony.

Clint picks up his tool box and heads to the magnet first—it is on the top of the list after all. “What happened here anyway? Another raid?”

“Not exactly,” Steve says, following Clint to the other side of the club and having a seat at the table closest to the magnet, noting how when broken the whole wall seemed dimmer somehow, like it’s general low humm of vibration when turned on usually flickered fast enough to make the metal shine. Much like the kid’s arm had; how the kid’s twist of limb and metal had practically glowed from its syncopated tremors when he came. Steve lick’s subconsciously at his lips; they taste like chrome. “Some trouble walked in. The police were after him. They kicked the door in on the Pynk Room.”

Clint feels along the left side of the magnet until his fingers catch the lock and he opens the front of it. The wall swings open to reveal the coil of wire at the heart of the electromagnet--parts of it look burned and shorted out but Steve isn’t an expert like Clint so he doesn’t even venture a guess as to what is wrong. “You should have called me sooner,” Clint says, rattling around inside the machinery.

“Been busy,” Steve says and it’s not exactly a lie. He has been busy but that wasn’t why he avoided calling Clint. It was because he didn’t want to have answer Clint if he asked--

“Talked to Tony lately?”

Steve tries to keep his body from tensing, keep the discomfort from showing clearly on his face. Clint isn’t looking at him now, though, so even if Steve has failed to hide what this question does to him it doesn’t matter.

“He’s busy too. With the tower and everything.”

“Did he give you a beta sample of that app?” Clint asks, tearing some of the electrical tape off with his teeth and delicately wrapping it around the wires like a bandage on an open wound.

“I’ve been using it. I’m learning one of the dialects from the F-3. It’s a good tool.” Clint just nods for too long indicating to Steve that another question he doesn’t want to answer is coming.

“Tony told me you haven’t been speaking to him.”

Steve sighs. “If you knew then why did you ask?”

Clint looks over his shoulder at Steve with a shit eating grin on his face and shrugs. “I wondered if you were going to lie about it. It’s kind of funny seeing you lie.”

“Glad I can amuse you,” Steve mutters.

“You know he misses you?” Clint says and Steve feels good hearing that but he doesn’t know if it’s true. It’s the kind of lie Clint might tell, a small one strong enough to mend a bridge between his two friends. Steve doesn’t respond, he doesn’t feel he can acknowledge something that is most likely a lie. “Bruce and I have this bet going,” Clint continues when Steve doesn’t give him anything, “about why you two are fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” Steve feels his gut twist and he finds he can’t look at his own hands without feeling that wrench deepen, remembering all too vividly what it had been like to curl the palms of those same hands around Tony’s throat and how Tony had responded to it—not with the lust Steve had been hoping for but with shock, disgust, and a little bit of fear. The fear had been the worst. The knowledge that after nearly a lifetime of friendship, a part of Tony still didn’t trust Steve not to hurt him. “We’re just taking some space. It’s good to take space sometimes.”

“Some space,” Clint laughs without humor, “you moved out and clear across the city.” That had been Steve’s idea, not able to be in the same space with Tony after what had happened. They had grown up together--he and Tony and sometimes Sharon, whose aunt Peggy was an old friend of Howard’s. Tony and Steve weren’t like siblings, that would have required Howard to treat him like he was human and not a test subject for his medical miracles. Steve was sick as a kid, had every ailment known to man and god alike, and Howard saw him and said “I can improve upon this boy”. Tony never treated him like that though, seemed to be thrilled to have someone in his large, cold manor to make friends with.

Steve hated Howard—even after all he made out of Steve—but he had no ill will towards Tony. He loved Tony. When Howard died Steve stayed in the manor to take care of Tony. Their natural closeness growing easily into attraction that turned sour, all tumbling down in a single night like some ill-built tower once Steve had his hands on Tony’s body. To Tony’s credit he wasn’t mad at Steve, just a little wary of him now and Steve couldn’t look at him, couldn’t live with him, without feeling like his hands were harbingers of pain and evil. Steve had really thought he knew Tony better, that he could read in him the same dark thrill that Steve had always had inside himself: that need for adrenaline and a little bit of danger. Who could have ever anticipated that Tony Stark of all people would end up being thoroughly and exclusively vanilla.

Tony had asked him to stay, in his easy funny way that he approached all things too serious for him, but that meant not talking about it. Steve couldn’t not talk about it, not without cutting off Tony altogether. At least for a little while. When Sharon let Steve move into the apartment above Club Thirteen and gave him a job to keep his mind busy, she didn’t ask him about why and he appreciated that about her. Similar with Tony, growing up together, she understood not to pry.

Clint, Bruce, and Thor, however, knew no such thing. Or they knew and didn’t respect it, thinking they could all bridge whatever gap was between them with wine and words alone. “I like this side of the city. Working here is nice.” It’s not a lie, certainly not about tonight in any case. Tonight, despite the cops and the broken doors, had been a very good night for Steve. He was able to let that violence that scared Tony, the dark perverse suddenly shameful part of himself that Steve had tried to bottle up afterwards, spill out and take him over. And the kid—that beautiful, perfect _angel_ —that had fallen into Steve’s lap had drank it all up, greedy and giddy until Steve felt renewed—like a baptism.

“So how long is it going to go on for?” Clint asks. He cuts himself on a loose wire and hisses, drawing his bleeding finger into his mouth. Steve reacts in a flash, already reaching for one of the first-aid kits that he makes Sharon keep stashed in every room of the club, but Clint waves off the offered kit, soldiering on with his task only seconds later.

“Trying to hedge your bet with Banner?” Steve asks even as he unzips the pouch anyway, pointedly placing the antibiotic ointment on the table as he adds, “At least put some disinfectant on it.” 

Clint rolls his eyes and then his shoulders, reaching for the tube because there’s no use arguing with Steve when it comes to safety and everyone who knows him knows that. That doesn’t stop Clint from throwing in a sarcastic salute though, a throwback to Steve’s childhood nickname that Tony had given him: Captain, or sometimes, _The Captain_ , depending. Because even asthmatic and smaller than the rest of them Steve had been full of opinions and the conviction to see them through. Steve knew they would all thank him eventually though; he was right—germs could _kill_. Steve makes sure to keep his eyes on Clint until the ointment has been applied, because he also knows Clint as well as Clint knows him and there’s no way Clint would take care of himself properly otherwise. Clint chucks the tube back at him the second he’s done with an exasperated sigh, “Banner says at least a year with how _stubborn_ both of you are. I’ve got until the tower grand opening gala.”

“What’s Thor’s money on?”

“He’s lost already,” Clint chuckles, “he thought you’d be moved out a week and then make up right away.”

That makes sense. Thor is more of an optimist than the rest of them, always believing love and friendship are uncomplicated things that sort themselves out quickly.

“I can’t help you,” Steve admits, “I don’t know how long it’s gonna last. Just until we both feel better around each other.”

Clint closes the front of the magnet and drops his tool back in his box. “You know you have to actually be around each other for that, right?” Clint gives the magnet a couple kind slaps before he signals to Steve. “Turn it on.”

Steve doesn’t have the remote on him so this takes longer than Clint was anticipating. Steve has to go behind the bar first, take the remote out of its hiding spot and then turns it on. The magnet whirs to life and shows that it’s as strong as it ever was by sucking up Clint’s tool box as well as the metal belt buckle on Clint’s pants. Clint, proud of himself, hoots and hollers and claps his hands. Steve turns the magnet off and comes back across the room, resting the remote on the table and then kneeling down to help pick up Clint’s scattered tools. They’re all tucked back in within a few minutes. Clint stands tall, bringing the box up with him, and nods to the hall of mirrors. “Want me to get the door on the Pynk Room while I’m here?”

Steve smiles, grateful in more ways than one to Clint, and nods. “It _is_ on the list.”

Clint pushes past him and heads to the back. “Two hundred altogether. Cash if you please.” He doesn’t need to remind Steve that he doesn’t “trust credits”; Steve is already heading to the register to count out the money. He makes a mental note to send a comm to Sharon to let her know she has her magnet back. It’s big, out in the open, and the only way to get one’s piece off is to turn off the whole magnet or use the reverse pulls of the magni-cuffs to take it off one weapon at a time. Steve winces remembering he doesn’t have the cuffs anymore. The Kid left with them—albeit involuntarily—and he’ll either have to secure another pair or make the cops return them once he tracks down whatever station the guy was hauled in to. Steve doubts the TCPD will be that accommodating, but the cuffs are expensive, a specialized kind of tech. It’s not even about the money but the principle of it all: that the cops think they can just come in and take the things that are his. 

And yet, before Steve finishes counting out Clint’s payment, it becomes apparent that Steve might not have to make a trip to the station after all when suddenly The Kid practically just manifests right there in front of him. Or, more precisely, the noise of the street filters for a few seconds through the open doors and then the kid walks into the club, wearing a shirt that hangs too low on his chest, its short sleeves pushed up even further onto his shoulder on the left so Steve has a full view of that glittering piece of machinery and the rigid outline of Steve’s cuffs tucked into the tight stretch of the front pocket of his jeans. Steve puts the cash down, forgetting about it entirely as he comes around the bar to grab the kid by his metal arm and hold him—to make sure he’s OK. The kid doesn’t pause long enough to let Steve look him over properly, however, as he slithers his body closer to Steve’s, as flirtatious and teasing as he had been in the Pynk Room, and Steve’s hands flex where they are, fingers involuntarily twitching to really fondle all the dips and creases the moment they feel that smooth expanse of chrome. The boy grins, a smile too dopey for someone who was being dragged into police custody a couple of hours ago. It’s beautiful. This kid is just so stupid, and reckless, and _beautiful_.

**“*How did I forget how pretty you are?*”** The kid says, vocalizing Steve’s thoughts for him. And the thing is: Steve understands him. Which is not possible. The kid isn’t speaking City, the words are definitely the same silky jargon that they were hours ago but Steve understands that jargon. Steve blinks a few times—that can’t be right. The kid goes on, still in his native tongue and it’s still clear as crystal to Steve’s ears, **“*I’m sorry, Daddy, did I make you worry?*”**

Steve finds his words then, but in the language he’s hearing, one he definitely doesn’t speak, **“*Did you just call me ‘Daddy’?*”**

The kid startles at that—shocked as Steve is to hear the words and then he laughs, the sound of it sensual and bright, like windchimes in the water. **“*You bastard,*”** He says, full of heat and adoration, pressing his body against Steve’s and grinding, **“*You like playing games, huh? You understood me the whole time.*”** Steve shakes his head, ready to deny it before he’s interrupted, **“*Lucky for you: I like to be played with.*”**

Anything Steve was going to say, City or otherwise, gets swallowed up in an eager kiss that Steve melts into easily. The kid is touching him— _James_ , Steve recalls again, the name not quite right, but still what the cop had been shouting when he kicked in the Pynk Room’s door—metal and flesh hands now pushing up Steve’s shirt and feeling at him underneath. Steve pulls them back but not to break the kiss, which would most likely be the smart thing to do, but instead to lean against the bar for support, onto one of Sharon’s bar stools, and pulling James as far into his lap as he can get him.

This, too, is short-lived. Clint clears his throat from the other side of the bar and when both Steve and James break apart to look at him, the guy waves. “You let me watch and I’ll knock fifty off of Carter’s bill.”

**“*I don’t like sharing,*”** James says with a pout, turning his mouth into Steve’s neck and biting a soft line up to his ear, **“*I don’t mind being shared though. If that’s what you want, Sir.*”**

Steve pushes James off of him, needs to have his hands free of the kid’s soft flesh and cool steel if he’s going to think straight.

“Clint this isn’t what it looks like,” Steve says, urgently and, gratefully, in City. That feels steadying somehow to move his mouth in a way that is familiar, something he knows is true.

“Yeah, sure it’s not,” Clint says but even as his mouth moves his hands sign something entirely different in the air next to him and Steve startles at that as well—almost as much as he does at the sudden sharp sensation of teeth as James leans forward to nip at his shoulder.

“Stop it,” Steve orders him, before turning back to Clint. The kid just huffs, a petulant noise that somehow also sounds delighted. It’s obvious that he isn’t paying attention to anything other than Steve’s chest and Steve rolls his eyes before locking them with Clint’s. “Did you just call me a ‘cock tease’ in sign language?” Steve knows he sounds angrier than the situation warrants but then again the situation is confusing as fuck so maybe not. And if anyone is going to be accused of being a cock tease tonight, it should really be the lithe wriggling piece of jailbait that has glued himself to Steve’s chest. The kid who Steve is a bit distressed to learn looks _much_ younger in a too-big tee shirt under the harsh backlights of the bar than he had in the Pynk Room.

Clint’s jaw drops and then he laughs and claps his hands. “Steve! Did you learn SL? For me? That’s so sweet. That owl app must have everything.”

The owl app _does_ have everything but Steve hasn’t been using it to learn sign language or whatever James is speaking. Something is definitely wrong and Steve feels dizzy. He stumbles forward a few feet, Clint rushing to steady him from the front and James from behind with a soft touch to Steve’s lower back. Clint lowers Steve into the chair he’d been sitting in while Clint fixed the magnet.

“Dude, are you okay?”

**“*Is it the drugs?*”** James asks, coming around to Steve’s front and kneeling before him. It’s nice, seeing the kid kneel, gaze up at him with those cold gray eyes, and feel his hands rub a smooth and calming path up and down Steve’s thighs. It’s steadying—except that Steve remembers that this kid slipped him something earlier and that brings up a new kind of rage. That must be what it is: Steve is having a bad trip. James might not even be here right now, maybe not Clint either, maybe Steve is having a horrific hallucination in the back of the Pynk Room. Although, as far as bad trips go, Steve has to admit this is a pretty mild one.

**“*What did you give me?*”** Steve snarls. This time Clint jumps back, puts his hands in the air like he’s going on the defensive.

“What the fuck, dude?” Clint asks, still concerned but now a little freaked out. “What are you speaking?”

“Clint,” Steve says, firm but voice shaking with his rising anger, “I think you should leave. Your money is on the bar.” He thinks he should add something in there about how Clint shouldn’t try and take more than his pay but he’s sure that Clint would never. The statement would be a little joke between them if Steve said it and just now Steve is not in the mood for jokes.

“Okay,” Clint says, like he really isn’t comfortable with what he’s agreeing to, “call me later. Okay?” Steve nods, eyes still glaring at James, and Clint for better or worse grabs the money off the bar and leaves.

James puts his pout back on, a playful smile in his eyes while he keeps rubbing Steve’s thighs, his hands getting a little higher each time. **“*Don’t be mad, Daddy,*”** he purrs, **“*I’m going to take good care of you. Really. I’m sorry.*”**

“Stop,” Steve sighs, closing his eyes and wishing he could turn his ears off just as easy, “I don’t know what’s happening. You’re freaking me out.”

**“*Okay,*”** James says, and it’s sweet, **“*okay, I’ve got it.*”** He sounds so sure of himself and Steve figures if they were the kid’s drugs then maybe he does have this and Steve should defer to him. But then he says, “What if we spoke in City, yeah?” Steve’s eyes flash open. “Would that make you more comfortable? What else can I do? You want some water?”

Steve takes in the smooth fluent confidence in the kid’s City and with a sudden flare of anger finds he kind of wants to punch him. He settles for grabbing him by the throat instead— something that shocks the kid but doesn’t seem to dull his arousal one bit. “You speak City?” Steve grits out and despite his hand gripping the boy’s throat, James laughs with mirth and teasing like he has the upper hand after all.

“Don’t be mad,” James repeats in a voice that leads Steve to believe that the kid wants the exact opposite, “I didn’t play any trick you didn’t.” The kid slides his flesh hand under Steve’s shirt and etches out the grooves of his abs. “So about how I can make you more comfortable...,” he leans in, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Steve drops his hand from James’s throat and the boy looks absolutely heartbroken about it. Steve turns away, picks up the remote from where it rests on the table, and fingers the button without pressing it. “Here,” Steve says and then turns on the magnet. It fires up with a grinding humm, the reconstituted mess of its synthetic innards churning back to life after a week off the grid. But even newly fixed, the pull of the tech is quick to act. Steve hears the slam of the metal arm into it and feels the room vibrate around him with the noise. He turns around to see the kid, metal limb pinned above his head and wincing from the sudden pull back. He probably hit his head on impact, and yet the shocked look James is sporting comes off way more pleased than pained. The kid is definitely an unexpected kind of treasure—unpredictable. There’s really no telling how he’ll react and move about when free, so Steve definitely deems these kind of extreme precautions necessary; the added aesthetic enjoyment is really just a bonus. “Now I’m more comfortable,” Steve finishes.

The look of pleased pain ebbs out of the kid’s face too quickly for something that otherwise looks so delicate. But he just smiles at Steve, laughing, and says, “Yeah me too.” He tries to pull away, maybe just to see if he can, to test the strength, but not with any actual desire to be freed.

The movement draws Steve’s eyes to the kid’s wrists and the paper ring around his right one. The TCPD must have tagged him. Steve knows they do that sometimes, do things the old fashioned way, tagging a body with a name to either verify or correct what’s recorded on the bioscan. Steve links his fingers through it, pulling the kid’s flesh arm closer to his eyes and the light to read it. Sure enough, he sees that name again: James Barnes. 

“So, James,” Steve begins, but the boy cuts him off.

“Bucky,” He corrects.

“What?”

“I go by Bucky. The only person who calls me ‘James’ is my step father and I _really_ don’t want to think about him right now.”

“Alright then, Bucky,” Steve amends, “you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

Bucky looks slightly uncomfortable and not at all because of the position he’s in. “That’s gonna be hard,” He says and when Steve quirks an eyebrow up at him he goes on, “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on. To be honest.”

“Why start now?”

“Because you’ve got me pinned and you’re asking nicely. Well in a way I _like_ if not ‘nice’ exactly.” Bucky’s free arm moves to push some of his hair behind his ears. Steve likes it at this length, so easy to grab and pull. “I didn’t know what they were when I swiped them,” Bucky explains, “I thought they were just uppers. I thought you’d take one and we’d move the party to your place.” Steve is flattered but tries to keep it out of his face. Judging by how Bucky still looks woeful and sorry, he succeeds--or maybe that’s Bucky’s own version of a poker face: sweet and doe-eyed, very “Please, Sir” and a mockery of innocence. Perhaps Bucky can read Steve loud and clear--it wouldn’t surprise him considering the other trick he’s pulled tonight. 

“The thing is,” Bucky continues, “I need them back. Like right now or, at least, in the next few hours.” It’s the first time the kid actually sounds distressed. Like there really might be times that Bucky has been introduced to the concept of _consequences_ and he may have actually met one or two of them that he really doesn’t like.

“Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?” Steve scoffs, sitting down in the chair in front of Bucky and gazing up at him like Bucky is a work of art Steve’s pinned to the wall, something that requires contemplation. Which, as far as Steve is concerned, is a fairly accurate assessment of the situation. Steve _knows_ art—can recognize and admire the asymmetric and otherworldly beauty of the boy in front of him. And as much as Steve hates to admit it—hates to admit what it says about _himself_ —Bucky is even prettier in distress. 

“You’re gonna help me, aren’t you?” Bucky whimpers and it certainly does things to Steve’s caveman brain to hear it, but he’s not stupid. “Don’t you want to take care of me?”

Steve swallows. If only this kid knew the depths of that offer. But the kid doesn’t; he can’t possibly know. “You don’t want to know what I want to do to you.”

The pathetic and docile face breaks into a wolfish grin. “I doubt that, _Sir_.” Steve looks away from the boy if only to wrap his mind around something other than Bucky’s wet lips.

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help you even if I wanted to,” Steve says, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. He has his composure back so he stares Bucky down again. Bucky is still flirting with him—even after all the things Steve had said that he assumed Bucky couldn’t understand. He had said so many things, each of them darker than the next. Things that should have made a normal person look back at him in horror, or even disgust. Steve knew he had always been plagued by a certain kind of _intensity_ , one that made the target of his attentions the only thing in the room. A thing he would pursue with singular vision until he dominated everything standing in his path. Until he had _won_. 

Steve also knows he can get carried away sometimes, swept up in that need to control and own. To tie up and tie off his pursuits with his own pretty bows of righteous entitlement. And the way that the kid had encouraged that side of Steve, coaxed and cooed out his ‘sirs’ and then opened up the soft landscape that was the delicate column of his neck, Steve had let himself get lost to the overwhelming rush of it. The very idea that the beautiful boy beneath him couldn’t understand the things that exited his mouth had made Steve’s lips so much looser than they should have been. Seeing as Bucky actually _could_ understand him after all, the kid should be terrified to stand next to Steve right now. Pre-established play was one thing, but what kind of psychopath told a complete stranger that he wanted to kidnap and cage the guy up in his custom dungeon as foreplay? Steve had only let a sliver of his intensity show during that one night with Tony after years of trust and friendship and look how _that_ had turned out. And Steve hadn’t said even half the things to Tony that he had to Bucky. So as violated as Steve feels by Bucky’s little language trick, he knows Bucky should be feeling even more violated by the spoken-aloud ideas that rattle around in Steve’s skull.

But Bucky hasn’t backed down, is still fluttering his lashes and leading his pleas with his throat. He either really needs Steve’s cooperation or he likes what he heard. Steve would hope for the latter, but seeing as the idea that Bucky might be like Steve—might match the deep cut of Steve’s own intensity in a mirrored inverted way-- is extremely statistically unlikely, he assumes it’s the former. Bucky is begging for his _help_ after all. Steve’s not adverse to helping--Sharon and Clint have both teased him habitually about his “white knighting” for a reason, but he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to help Bucky now. 

“I took the pill. Your last one if I remember correctly. So if that’s what you needed, we both know it’s gone now.”

“Not exactly gone,” Bucky muses, “I mean it’s in your body,” Bucky pauses to rake his eyes up and down Steve’s said body, “so I really just need your body for about an hour. Two tops.” Bucky runs his eyes over Steve, a coy glint in his irises that have turned ultra-violet in the light. “Although I’d certainly take it for longer.”

Steve should be throwing him out. Everything about Bucky Barnes screams trouble like a razor scratch of nails down his spine. It’s the kind of sensation Steve instinctually wants to lean into, but knows he shouldn’t. Steve _could_ say no. He could leave Bucky megna-chained to the wall in a way that would surely send Bucky a clear message to leave him be. He even has the option of calling the cops back if Bucky won’t stay away. But Steve’s curiosity, for both Bucky and his strange plight, is stronger even than his desire to keep Bucky pinned and begging where he is. “What do you need my body for?”

“Besides the obvious?” Bucky rolls his hips like he’s grinding against an imaginary Steve that’s in front of him. The movement of it is smooth, languid and yet so filthy and almost desperate, that Steve can’t look away from it. Even Bucky’s words grow breathier as he speaks. Like he knows just what it will do to Steve and he’s not wrong. “I have a friend. Really smart friend. A doctor. She’ll run some tests, take some samples, and just reverse engineer the drug.”

Sure, simple enough, Steve thinks, rolling his eyes as he breathes through the rising intensity that’s steadily sparking back to life. He stands if only to do something with the energy building up inside of him. “Why should I?” Bucky’s eyes follow Steve as he paces in front of him and now Steve feels like the watched exhibit and Bucky the fascinated patron.

“I can make it worth your while?” When Steve laughs too loudly at that Bucky pouts again and sighs. “I can pay you. Also. In credits if you want. I have plenty of money.”

Steve doesn’t care about money. Being Howard Stark’s live in guinea pig had set him up for life and now Bucky is offering the same kind of deal. Steve’s not eager to live through that again, even if only for a couple of hours, and even if there is something about Bucky that makes Steve want to help him anyway, with anything. Steve has always been a compulsive kind of helper in the face of distress but even he has his limits. Steve stops in front of Bucky, closes the distance between them to less than a foot, and stares hard at the man before him. “I need a better reason than that. This requires me trusting you.”

Bucky closes his eyes. Takes in a deep breath that rattles on the way out. That’s sincere, Steve can tell, the worry in his breathing. “I do a lot of stupid shit, okay?” Bucky admits, opening his eyes and locking them onto Steve’s. “I get in trouble all the time and I don’t care because I’m the only one who gets hurt. I like a little hurt so I keep doing stupid shit.” Steve tries not to focus too hard on that last part—that Bucky says he _likes_ to be hurt, and that Steve has seen evidence of that first hand. “But this time I fucked up and now someone else is going to catch the hurt because of it instead. I can’t let that happen. I have to fix it. And I can’t fix it without you so _please_ ,” Bucky begs—goddamn but does Steve like to hear him beg, “help me.”

Steve holds the silence between them for a few beats while he searches Bucky’s eyes for a lie. He doesn’t find it. “Who gets hurt? If not you.”

Bucky sighs, deep and tired, like he hates to answer this question, or think of it, or give it words and therefore some kind of legitimacy. Words make things real; they’re powerful that way. “My little sister,” He says, voice soft so the words aren’t strong enough to break him, “she’s being held hostage, basically, and if I don’t get the drugs, or a replica, to the guy by nine tomorrow morning, she’s going to get hurt real bad.”

Steve reaches up and strokes Bucky’s face, feels out the stubble growing in there. He’s surprised to feel how course it is, that Bucky could probably grow a full beard out if he ever wanted to. Maybe he’s not really such a kid after all then. Or might be older than he looks at least. Bucky also looks tired in a way that he didn’t when he walked back into the club. Bucky closes his eyes, leans his face into the touch and reaches his unpinned hand up to tug at Steve’s shirt. This isn’t the kind of begging Steve likes; it’s too sad and not desperate in the way Steve wants it to be. Bucky is desperate and needy for a good reason, Steve knows he can’t say ‘no’.

“Just two hours?” Steve asks. Bucky opens his eyes and they are alight with gratitude; this Steve likes.

Bucky nods, eager and pleased, a smile splitting his face. “I promise.” Bucky turns his head and kisses Steve’s palm, bites the thumb, and then pulls it into his mouth, like he wants to remind Steve what his mouth feels like. Steve hasn’t forgotten. Steve presses the digit in deeper and Bucky takes it like a good boy, without protest. The sight of flesh sucked past his lips is captivating. Steve can’t seem to look away from the swell of his lip and the sharp lines of his collar bones that peak up through the looseness of his shirt.

The shirt isn’t his. Steve knows that much. It doesn’t smell like him, the faint scent of cigarettes lingering in the fabric when nothing else about Bucky suggests that he smokes. Besides, Bucky hadn’t been wearing a shirt when the cops had dragged him out of the club, which Steve knows since even in the midst of the commotion the image of Bucky shirtless and scared had been burned into his mind. And because Steve might have taken the kid’s shirt off of the Pynk Room floor with intentions to wash it and return it, if he found Bucky again. The worn fabric Bucky has on now is comparably as expensive as the one he had left behind at the club, an A-3 soft cotton that one couldn’t just pick up anywhere on the street. The seams along the sleeve indicate that it’s a custom tailored job, hand cut for a much larger man—one, apparently, who had reasons to cross paths with a half-naked kid pushed out of the bowels of the precinct afterdark. Men like that didn’t just offer others the shirts off their backs. Steve wonders what Bucky had to do to get it. 

“How old are you?” Steve’s afraid to ask but he has to. The kid had been in the club, but the gap of fabric at his throat makes him look suddenly fragile and it's really not that hard to falsify an ID scan.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him, soft lips still sucking at Steve’s thumb, expresion a warring mixture of weary amusement, like he knows exactly why Steve’s asking and has heard this line of questioning before. “Old enough,” he says and that answer _isn’t_ enough.

“Bucky,” Steve warns him and Bucky’s eyes flash, delighted by the sternness of it. 

“Relax, _daddy_ ,” Bucky teases, and the word and the tone of it kicks under Steve’s breastbone, something forbidden and sticky and sweet. But Bucky must also be able to sense that his answer matters to Steve in a way the kid’s likely not used to, because he sounds more serious for a beat of a moment, surprised but earnest when he assures Steve, “Seriously, you can relax. I know I look younger. I always have. But I’ve been legal in the Center districts for _seven years_ , and the RL-12 for ten. Plus, I’ve always been a law breaker, so sorry to break it to you, but there is nowhere here that no man hasn’t gone before.”

“Cute,” Steve deadpans but he still feels relieved—feels permitted, maybe even entitled to push himself further into Bucky’s space, melding his body into Bucky’s to pin the boy tighter to the wall. 

“I think so,” Bucky breathes back at him, and Steve snorts, digs his own fingers in warning into the softer skin of Bucky’s organic wrist. 

It’s not a good idea, Steve knows that. They’re running on a clock and Steve should have gotten his fill of Bucky an hour ago and yet he still finds his free hand sliding open the button to Bucky’s jeans and dragging the zipper down.

The bridge of Steve’s nose finds Bucky’s temple naturally; Bucky’s hair smells like sunshine and peaches in a city filled with filth and shadows, and Steve murmurs the first thing that comes into his head. “So about this whole ‘daddy’ thing…” Steve knows exactly why he felt compelled to address Bucky’s repeated choice of vocative the moment that Bucky’s big blue eyes go wide with want.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, and there’s so much hope in his tone, his voice sparkles with it. The kid would be a terrible poker player. At least when he’s turned on. Especially when he presses against Steve’s torso with his own, straining upwards for contact and validation. “You like that?”

“I like…” Steve’s not entirely sure how to put it, the depth of what his interest really means. “I like taking care of things,” he settles on. Because that’s true. As is his next statement which comes out as, “And I like pretty little things like you that will let me.”

Bucky seems to get him though, understands Steve’s words on a fundamental level that shivers through his core as he coos back, all breathy and coy, “I’d let you do *anything*, _daddy_.” 

Steve eyes him critically, sharp, assessing. “Is that so?”

In response, Bucky sinks his teeth deep into his lip. Eyes wide, playing dumb. “Only one way to find out, huh, _daddy_.”

The kid has to know he’s perfect. There’s confidence in every move he makes. Bucky knows his angles. Knows how to manipulate all the flesh around him. Knows the effect he has on Steve. But there’s something else in Bucky’s eyes too, a hunger in the way the irises flicker. 

Steve reads people for a living now. He knows how to tell when a man might become a threat and to read the weaknesses in their defenses. Steve’s pretty sure that Bucky’s the kind of threat that can ruin a man, but that everything Steve has to offer might just tear straight into the kid’s own weaknesses in a way that will ruin him right back. Tangling with Bucky might very well be a kind of mutually assured destruction. The kind that scourches and salts the earth wherever it travels. Steve can’t wait, he can feel the excitement of that prospect in his smile. “I’m counting on that.” 

Bucky flutters his lashes, pulls at the cuff. His arm scrapes against the wall, metal on metal in a high pitched grind. The sensation can’t possibly hurt him, but Bucky lets out a little gasp anyway like it does, likely just to see what Steve will do about it. If he’ll back down if he thinks that Bucky is in some kind of _discomfort_ even though everything else about Bucky is begging for the pain. Steve has no problem calling his bluff. “Put your other hand up to the wall,” Steve orders him instead, voice as casual and cold as he can pitch it. “No touching.”

Bucky nods, his eyes still so wide, so blue, as he complies. His flesh hand looks stark against the wall, doesn’t blend in like the prosthetic, nor does the wall’s smooth surface give him anything to grasp onto and Steve watches the way that Bucky’s fingers scramble for a moment against the glide of it.

After a few beats, Steve lets his own fingers brush against Bucky’s, his larger palm settling over Bucky’s knuckles to still Bucky’s hand as Steve’s other set of fingers skirt down the silhouette of him: cheek to chin to chest and down, back to the open zipper of Bucky’s pants to reach into his briefs--silky, expensive little things that feel sinful to touch.

Bucky’s cock kicks up beneath Steve’s fingers and Steve hums as Bucky moans. Steve palms at the length of it, feels the flush of it in his hand. “Look at what a big boy you are,” Steve clucks his tongue, tsks at Bucky in a way that he knows sounds fondly scolding, teasing. “Not as big as daddy, though, huh.”

**“* _Fuck_ *,**” Bucky curses, Babel flowing through his tongue before he almost swallows it. 

Part of Steve wants to correct Bucky on his language--to tell him to watch his tongue. Only the words sound so pretty babbling from his lush fat lips. So instead Steve decides on a different restriction. One he isn’t sure Bucky will even be capable of, but one that will still be fun to watch him try.

“I want you to press yourself tight against that wall, like your whole body is magnetized to it,” Steve orders and Bucky’s whole spine goes rigid in compliance. Steve nods his approval. “That’s it. Don’t move. Right now all of you is just assembled from pretty, scraped together parts. And if you can be a perfect toy and stay very still for me, daddy will let you come.”

Bucky nods back, a mimicking trance-like motion that’s still stiff and jilted from maintaining the press of his back to the wall as he does so. His eyes look glazed. “Whatever you say sir; whatever you want.”

So demure, so perfect: It’s enough to earn a small reward so Steve slaps him, a quick sharp cut of palm to cheek. Bucky keeps his head straight the whole way through. Spine to wall. Even as his eyes roll back, exposing the whites on another guttural moan that makes Steve’s heart sing. “There’s a good boy.” 

Steve knows they’re on a time crunch--that the clock is ticking the slow minutes ‘til midnight then dawn. But the moment his knees meet the floor, sticky with the quick-handed overpours of champagne and tequila, Steve also knows that Bucky isn’t in a position to last. The poor boy’s cock strains as Steve wets it with his tongue in a slow teasing glide; burns and pulses when Steve swallows him whole. 

Steve starts to work him, quick and heavy, relentless suction that has Bucky keening, fingers scratching and scrambling against the alloyed wall. Bucky’s legs are aching, trembling with the slightest quiver that vibrate against Steve’s skull. Steve takes pity on him, a rare show of kindness in situations like these as he hooks Bucky’s legs over his broad shoulders, the readjusted suspension canting Bucky’s hips forward, his spine pressing tighter against the wall.

The angle allows Steve to take Bucky’s cock deeper, and it would be the perfect set up for Bucky to thrust and take what he needs, only Steve had ordered his boy to keep his hips still and Bucky whines as he forces himself to remain frozen, a long unrelenting sound that echoes in the bar. It makes Steve smile, the noise twitching his lips into the curve of something teasing and sharp.

Bucky doesn’t move though, finding resolve from somewhere that Steve is impressed by. He hadn’t been sure that Bucky had it in him: the ability to be still without physical restraint. That he could stay pinned in place by the sheer resolve to acquiesce to Steve’s demands. It’s infinitely endearing. Bucky is endearing, and is instantly endeared to him. Steve feels protective and tender and sadistic all at once; he wants to cradle this boy, stroke his skin softly as he tears him apart. Flay the raw, breathtaking beauty of him open gently until he’s screaming.

Bucky’s whines return to Babel as Steve settles into a punishing rhythm, a constant chant of **“*please, please, please*--”**. One night soon, Steve will drag this out for hours. Will push and suck and pet Bucky to the shivering precipice of the edge and pull him back. Over and over and over until he’s sobbing. Spit and tears and exhaustion that is all because of Steve-- _for_ Steve. But somewhere the clock is ticking, counting down. Out there in the night are faceless men who are after this boy. That want to hurt this beautiful boy and the things he holds dear without the reassembly after. And Steve knows as he signs for Bucky to come--that he’s been *** _so good_ *** and to **_*come for me you fucking holy angel--*_** and Bucky obeys, not a moment of feedback delay from Steve’s command to Bucky’s release to a litany of _ThankYouThankYouThankYou_ , that he’s never letting anyone else hurt this gorgeous creature again. 

Bucky is somewhat limp and boneless as he comes down. Steve lowers his legs gently. If he weren’t pinned to the wall both from the magnet and his dedication to Steve’s orders he might melt. “You can move now, Bucky,” Steve allows. Bucky, movements languid and focused, uses this permission to reach for the bulge in Steve’s pants. His fingers try to open the zipper but they’re fumbling, like moving through a thick fog. Bucky is also trying to do it by touch and not sight since his eyes, glazed over and wet at the edges, are locked on Steve. His metal fingers twitch against the magnet a sign even that part of him wants to touch and stroke Steve.

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s wrist and gently moves it away. Bucky whines like an animal, a spoiled brat who can’t get his way, despite the fact that he just came moments ago. He shouldn’t be whining about anything after he’s gotten his. But his hand pushes back against Steve’s grip, insistent and eager to please. Steve loves that.

“We don’t have time,” Steve explains. There’s something raw and honest in the pout Bucky gives him.

**“*I want to,*”** Bucky stops and closes his eyes, like he’s trying to recalibrate something and then says, in City, “I want you to use me.” Bucky remembers that speaking in R-12 makes Steve upset and he’s still following Steve’s orders, including the one to not speak in R-12 from earlier.

Steve grins. “You’re so sweet,” Steve says. He holds Bucky by the chin, fingers digging in just hard enough to hold Bucky still but not enough to bruise. The bruising can come later, if that’s what Bucky wants. Steve wants to use him too, this beautiful, compliant, perfect boy. But Steve also likes the wait. He always has. There’s something about the build up that lights him up, keeps his nerves humming. He likes the feeling of it, is content to draw it out. And he can now that his sense of the world has been reset back to his comfort level. A place where he feels in control. Bucky gifting him that control over what Steve does with him. And Steve will give and take and use everything the kid will allow of him, but not with impulse—with _conviction_. “Don’t worry,” Steve assures him, making sure his voice carries low and sure between them as he promises, “I’m going to make good use of you after.”

Bucky’s whole body shutters, strong enough to rattle the metal of the magnet, and he whispers, “Promise?”

In answer, Steve drops Bucky’s chin and nibbles at the soft pulse on this throat while he tucks Bucky back into the black denim of his inappropriately tight jeans and zips him up. Now that Bucky has feeling in his body again, at least enough not to drop to the floor in a puddle if Steve lets him go, Steve walks the few feet back to the remote and turns the magnet off.

The drop of Bucky’s left arm is instant, the rest of him pulled forward by the momentum but not enough to land on the ground. Bucky moves it, tests the joints and his fingers, gives it a good rotation until everything operates like it’s supposed to. Steve watches—loves to see the metal and wires move like flesh while not being flesh. There’s an uncanny valley in the way prosthetics, especially such a well made one as Bucky’s, behave that makes Steve’s body flood with heat and want. Howard had pioneered prosthetics and Tony improved upon them. Stark manor always had metal body parts lying around, some of them twitching on their own from random sparks firing, left over power, and Steve used to watch them move on their own. They looked like disconnected things full of life, a bewitching power with a strange captivating beauty that Steve could never keep out of his mind for long.

With feeling back in his body now, Bucky takes the few short steps towards Steve and says, casually, “We’ll need to make a couple stops first before we see my friend.”

Steve’s not sure he likes that. He wants this to move along—doesn’t need it dragging out both for Bucky’s sake and, on a lesser level, his own. He wants to get Bucky alone, secluded, has a promise to fulfill and needs hours without pressure or interruptions to do it. “What stops?” Steve asks—surely these things can be skipped.

“Well we need to pick up some food for Shuri,” Bucky explains, “that’s my doctor friend. She forgets to eat on shift all the time.” Steve nods; that seems harmless and quick enough. There are plenty of places in the area where they can grab a fast meal, probably some even on the way to the hospital. Besides, Bucky should eat something too. It’s been hours and Steve has only seen Bucky intake drugs and champagne. No one would have cared enough about his well-being to have fed him at the station. The kid needs to take better care of himself. Steve makes a mental note to make sure Bucky eats something green. “And I need some firepower,” Bucky adds. “Just something to make me feel a little safer.”

Steve looks the kid over, only half-teasing as he asks, “You expecting a war?”

Bucky’s voice is a little too flippant— _forced_ —as he replies, “That’s life in The City, right? There’s always a war.” 

The kid really would make a terrible poker player, once you know his tells. There’s an exhaustion beneath his smile and Steve just knows that the kid is scared. That Bucky might really have the kind of life for which he has to fight to live. 

Steve runs his hand through Bucky’s hair and gives it a tight tug at the ends—one that Bucky leans into like he loves the way Steve touches him, no matter how he touches him, but especially when he touches him cruelly. “I’ll keep you safe,” Steve promises and then uses the tug to pull Bucky down into the chair next to them. He will do it too. Steve has never failed to protect, and he’s not about to start now. Not with something so utterly _precious_. But Steve also wants Bucky to feel comfortable and secure. And if Bucky wants to carry his own sword with Steve beside him, there’s no reason why Bucky can’t have both. No reason why Steve can’t give the kid anything and everything he asks for. “Stay there,” Steve orders and Bucky nods, tilting his face up and fluttering his eyelashes at Steve. Bucky keeps his mouth open, just a little, just enough that Steve can remember how plush and soft Bucky’s lips are—an open offer if he’d rather cash in on his other promise now instead of later.

Steve goes behind the bar and shuffles around for the lockbox, but he can still see Bucky through the reflection in the bar glass. Bucky, in Steve’s absence, tilts his body all the way back, looking at the bar upside down even though the angle can’t possibly let him see any of what Steve is doing. The kid’s definitely the curious kind, won’t let much of anything lie. Steve can only hope that Bucky is usually more careful, that his insatiable curiosity won’t get him in trouble one day. Although maybe that’s exactly why they were here. Maybe it already has. 

“People leave their heat here all the time,” Steve calls to him, “they don’t always come back for them. We have a lost and found, just in case.” Thirteen has a few hidden compartments in the floor just for that purpose—most clubs do and ones that are prone to police raids _definitely_ do. Bucky brings his body up to sit straight again as Steve comes back and drops a large trunk at Bucky’s feet. The loud noise it makes when it hits the ground tells Bucky that whatever is in there is heavy and Steve just carried it over like it was nothing.

Steve kneels down and opens up the trunk. It’s holding a fucking arsenal and Bucky’s eyes go wide as he mutters, “some ‘lost and found’.” 

Steve nods, checking each gun to make sure it’s fully loaded before he holsters one and holds the other out to Bucky. Bucky reaches for it, eager for the safety one feels when holding heat in a city so cold, and Steve pulls it away from him quickly to pin him with a glare, a sudden thought making him wary. “If I give this to you,” He says, “you’re not allowed to use it on me.”

Bucky grins, winks, mocking Steve, and says, “Or you’ll what?”

“I’m doing you a favor,” Steve replies holding the gun out to Bucky again. This time Bucky doesn’t reach for it yet, and Steve can read it on his face: that need for permission swelling inside him again in the way that Steve hopes only he can make it, “so I expect you to be a good boy.”

Bucky nods, holds his hand open for the piece, and says softly, “Yes, sir. I’ll be good for you.”

And yeah, Steve’s job is to read people, assess threats. Everything in him tells him that Bucky could be a threat if he wanted to be. A worthy opponent or enemy to practically anyone in the City. Steve doesn’t know anything about Bucky’s life, who is in it or the daily dangers he faces, but Steve would be willing to bet that whoever they are, they all probably have a tendency to underestimate Bucky. Just as much as Steve would be willing to bet that Bucky likes it that way, has likely taken a great deal of time to cultivate that misdirection with care. But Steve can also read the other layer there too, the side of Bucky that seems to genuinely want to be good for Steve. The side that blushes with dilated eyes every time he whimpers ‘Daddy,’ like he just wants to be loved and seen. Taken care of. Have some respite to turn to when he’s sick of the fight.

Steve puts the gun in his open palm, satisfied with Bucky’s promise, secure for now in the knowledge that he is much more valuable to Bucky alive and well. That he has things that Bucky needs and that Steve is more than willing to give. 

Bucky’s fingers curl around the steel, relieved. The motion is familiar, practiced. He knows his way around a gun. Steve’s heart aches for him as much as it swells with a certain kind of pride. 

Steve holsters his own heat and then closes up the trunk. “Alright, kid,” Steve sighs, unable to resist brushing his lips against Bucky’s temple before he pushes him towards the blinking blood orange sign of the club’s side exit, “Let’s go fight your war.” 


	4. The Medic of Babylon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who have commented, left kudos, and generally supported this fic so far. We *really* appreciate them and you. :) <3<3

**The Medic of Babylon**

Shuri feels bad. She shouldn’t have yelled at that EMT. She was upset, and she was _right_ but he didn’t deserve the brunt of her anger; he meant well. To make matters worse, she doesn’t know his name. She’s on shift with him all the time. She’s taken plenty of patients off the ambulance from him but she never bothered to learn his name (or any of the EMTs now that she thinks about it). Which isn’t her fault, logically, since there isn’t really a good time when you’re passing blood soaked bodies around to stop and say “By the way, I’m Shuri. What’s your name?” In the hospital they don’t really need to know each other’s names to do their job but now Shuri needs to find him and calmly explain why he upset her and there’s no way to do that without the guy’s name. She knows his face—cute smile, bright eyes, floppy hair—but she can’t just wander around the lower levels of the garage looking for him. For one thing his shift might be over—he’s probably not even on the premises anymore. The other thing is she’s tired, and starving, and was having a bad day of her own before the EMT entered the picture and made things worse. She doesn’t want to wander the halls; she wants to sit at the nurse’s station and find out if she can sleep with her eyes open. She probably can’t. She’s ‘tired but wired’— a common side effect of taking night shifts. She’s taken so many of them that it’s become a chicken versus egg situation of not knowing if she was always a night owl and that’s why she got into medicine or if the night shift made her that way.

Hunger: that’s her main issue. If she wanted to sleep she could try and doze in the doctor’s bunks. Sleep is not her problem; it’s that she can’t remember the last time she ate. She’s been so consumed in work for the past few hours. She considers the vending machines but she doesn’t want a sugar boost--she needs something substantial. Something with carbs and protein to rattle her back to life. Her need for food is so strong that she thinks, at first, that the smell of greasy fries and a large burger is a hallucination manifested by her brain. The familiar sound of a metal arm whirring as a bag of food is dropped in front of her confirms that it’s real.

The sound of the tech is familiar enough, one of her finer custom jobs to the point that she knows it’s wielder by the soft purr alone. So she digs into the bag before she even looks at Bucky. For the moment, as far as she’s concerned, there is no Bucky, no EMT, no outer world beyond the salt and potatoes she shoves into her mouth. When she does look at Bucky after a handful of fries, she beams at him because he is a food baring angel sent from heaven to grant her deepest wish. 

For as long as Shuri’s known Bucky, he’s always been an instigator, a “pot stirrer” her ouma used to say. Most people have a tendency to write him off as trouble. But Shuri could tell from the moment she met him that he was sweeter, kinder even than most people would ever expect. Plus, Bucky also had an uncanny ability to anticipate a person’s needs, always subtly observing, making notes in his mind and following through. It was almost supernatural, Bucky’s talent for perception, something that, like Bucky always showing up with food for her in her times of deepest and most delirious hunger, had always at first seemed like coincidence, then witchcraft, and then, Shuri had to conclude, was really just pure impressive skill. Bucky simply knew his friends, had observed and worked through all of their patterns and made sure to meet their needs. If Bucky ever wanted to use that power for something nefarious, there would be no stopping him. Shuri’s never seen a soul that Bucky couldn’t ultimately charm and manipulate—except Alexander Pierce, of course, but Shuri wasn’t so sure that Pierce actually had a soul to charm. Bucky was simply charming is all. A charmer. And yet, as far as Shuri was concerned, Bucky could charm and manipulate whoever and however he wanted to as long as he kept bringing her burgers like this. 

Shuri smiles at him wider around the bites of fried potato, not even caring about the oils that threaten to start dripping down her chin. Bucky smiles back at her, always looking so pleased with himself when he provides her with something, successfully fulfilled a need. Shuri knows a part of that satisfaction was simply just who Bucky was, while the other, the deeper, more urgent relief in his eyes has a lot to do with his arm and whatever unpayable debt Bucky seems to think he has now. It wasn’t that hard of a conclusion for Shuri to draw. After the bio-graft, Bucky’s own visible need to fulfil any of hers had increased past even his usual helpfulness, as if he was always trying to pay off a debt to her that she doesn’t feel he owes. She made the arm for her own reasons. But she knows the imbalance of pride a man can feel when they believe they can never pay off a debt. The things she has seen some men do for her brother—unasked for and unprovoked in the name of disillusioned reciprocity—still haunt her. If Bucky wants to pay off his imaginary debt through something as innocuous and welcome as late-night fast food, Shuri will let him do it. 

“Don’t forget the burger,” Bucky says nodding to the bag, “I had them put a fried egg on it and some avocado.”

She digs into the bag for the promised burger and is just about to tell him she loves him, he’s her best friend, she would die for him and this food, when she catches the gaze of the man standing just behind Bucky, too close to not be in his party. He’s tall, square jaw and piercing blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a scruffy beard to match. He looks like he could carry two Buckys on his shoulders and not break a sweat. He’s just Bucky’s type and Shuri turns an annoyed glare onto him.

“What are you after?” She asks, making her voice low and conspiratorial.

“I can’t just bring my friend dinner?” Bucky’s offensive tone is not convincing, but it isn’t meant to be--he knows that she knows that he’s sucking up to her. She takes a large bite of the burger and chews it slow, savoring the taste and texture. “I worry about you when you work over nights. T’Challa does too.”

“Did he ask you to bring me food?” Shuri takes a napkin out of the bag, unfolds it on the table, and then dumps the fries out onto it.

“No,” Bucky says, “I just know that you forget to eat sometimes when you’re working. And they closed the food court hours ago.”

Shuri opens a packet of hot sauce, one of many packets that Bucky grabbed for her at the restaurant and dumped into the bag. She squeezes it out onto her fries going through three packets before she’s satisfied with the amount. “But you _do_ want something?”

She glances at Bucky—he looks uncomfortable, tense in the wrong places and she hasn’t seen him like this since he lost his arm. Bucky’s normally easy, relaxed, and the times that he is jumpy, it’s always in an eager way—like he wants to spend the energy. He looks tired now, and worried. Mostly he looks like he doesn’t want to involve her but he has no choice. Bucky looks back at the square jawed dream boat for a moment, maybe to check he hasn’t run off, before he answers her, “I do need something, yeah. A big favor.”

She sets her fry down, feeling like she can’t eat while Bucky is acting so strangely. He’s _scared_. “What do you need?”

Bucky looks around the room like he’s trying to find someone he doesn’t trust tucked in a corner. He leans down over the counter and drops his voice to a low whisper. “Is there a private room we can go to?”

Shuri sighs, exasperated, because that seems more like the Bucky she knows--the one that likes the veil of privacy for his dalinces in places he _knows_ everyone can overhear him get fucked. Shuri was pretty certain that she had been pretty explicitly clear the last time she had walked into an exam room to the sight of Bucky getting railed in the gyno chair, stirrups and all, by one of the overnight nurses that Bucky was not allowed to use the hospital as a one-hour motel. Shuri raises her eyebrows and blinks in disbelief at Bucky. She had thought this was serious, but if Bucky is just trying to get a thrill out of public fornication with a bonus kink of sterilized medical equipment— _again_ —she is not amused. She hisses at him, “You know my purpose in life is not to help you get laid?” Bucky looks a little taken aback. She continues, “I have my own thing going on. I’ve had a bad night and my priority is not to get you a private hospital bed to get fucked on.”

“Woah,” Bucky says, putting his hands up in a defensive move, “that is not what this is about. Trust me.” Although he does look a little sheepish, even through the panic, like he knows exactly why Shuri’s mind had gone there first, which is at the very least a little validating. Shuri pops another fry into her mouth, deciding to let him explain. “It’s a thing with Pierce. Steve’s just--oh that’s Steve,” Bucky remembers, jerking his thumb back at the blonde man who gives Shuri an awkward wave, “Steve this is Shuri.”

_Pierce_ , just that one word and Shuri believes him. That isn’t a name Bucky uses lightly, or ever, if he can help it and so she nods to show that she believes him, her annoyance over Bucky’s possible motivations flowing out of her body along with the tension it created in her jaw and shoulders. She gives a cursory wave to Steve without looking at him, her eyes focused on Bucky once again to figure out what’s going on. He mentioned Pierce: the closest thing modern scientists have seen to the disgusting fish creatures that climbed out of the ooze and grew legs. Pierce is a person—and honestly Shuri thinks calling him a “person” is far too generous—who represents everything Shuri hates about The City. T’Challa has had more direct run ins with him than Shuri has. Really Shuri only has Bucky as a link between herself and Peirce but even that is enough. She knows the man is just as slimy and evil behind closed doors as he is with them open.

She feels a little bad for jumping to conclusions, even if Bucky’s motivations most of the time are punching and fucking, so her assumption wouldn’t have been too far off on a normal day. She offers him a fry in apology. He smiles, eats it out of her fingers like a tamed pony, and if there were any hard feelings between them, they’re gone now. She still doesn’t know what to make of Steve though, especially when she sees how intensely the guy watches Bucky’s throat as he swallows down the fry, the thick muscles in his own neck subconsciously flexing like they are trying to mimic the movement. Maybe, Shuri thinks, she should offer Bucky’s new acquaintance one too; the guy looks hungry. But Steve just waves the offered paper bag off with a cordial smile when she holds it up his way. 

Bucky leans down closer toward her, voice low. From her seated vantage point in front of both of them, Shuri can see that even in the midst of this _emergency_ Steve still takes the time to trail his eyes over the sudden bent presentation of Bucky’s ass. Maybe her read on the situation hadn’t been entirely off afterall. “I need a private room because it’s not the kind of thing you want people over hearing,” Bucky explains, voice low--serious. 

Bucky is rarely serious. About anything. So Shuri nods, stands, and packs up her food as best she can back into the paper bag. Once on the other side of the counter she pauses to give Bucky a quick hug. Up close, Bucky looks frazzled, tired even, and he looks like he could use some support. Besides, she’s happy to see him. Bucky has so few people in his life that are happy to see him. He gives her a squeeze in return, just a quick one, but Shuri can still feel the years of friendship between them: That unshakable bond forged by the daily survivals of The City. The doctor and the street-trick felon was an unlikely combination on the surface, but they had always had a weighted amount in common, starting with the camaraderie of knowing what it was like to see men disassembled and put back together, held by circuits and thread to trudge onward through another day. Shuri takes another flicker of a moment to size up _Steve_ from where he looms behind Bucky, spine tactically loose yet perfectly straight. The man was so clean cut, radiating that All-City golden boy sheen. He wasn’t Bucky’s usual crowd. Shuri could only hope that the guy knew what he was getting into. Could only hope that _Bucky_ knew what he was getting them both into. Shuri’s seen Bucky do some stupid things for cock, but he wasn’t actually stupid, so she’s prepared to let that stay Bucky’s call. “Ok, follow me,” Shuri allows, mentally scanning their room options for privacy before she pulls off and leads Bucky and Steve down the hall.

*

Instead of Bucky bogging down the story with his long explanation of events, he could have just told Shuri that it was a medical and scientific mystery that could potentially ruin Peirce and she would have been on board a lot faster. She had faded in and out of his story a couple of times—all the parts that involved backroom sex with Steve—something about strippers and magnets and spilled champagne--and then the “game” of mutual harassment between him and Detective Wilson—but once Bucky had gotten to the important bit, that there was a _mystery drug_ and the side effects were hitherto unknown, that was when Shuri fully snapped back into the conversation, dragged Steve to the MRI down the hall, and threw him into the machine.

“I’ll want blood samples too,” Shuri explains to Bucky who has his hands and face pressed into the glass like that’s going to help him see Steve through the large machine. Maintenance is going to have to windex that spot extra hard—Shuri can practically see Bucky’s worried expression imprinting itself on the glass. Whatever weird sex they had engaged in that Bucky had been waxing on about must have left more than the usual impact. Sure, Bucky had an incredibly addictive personality, fueled by pure impulse and a hyperactive kind of affection, but Shuri had seen plenty of Bucky’s parade of men, and not one of them had received such a considerable amount of his attention _after_ he’d slept with them. That in and of itself would _almost_ be interesting if Shuri had thought there was even a sliver of a chance of quantifying Bucky’s psyche, but the idea of Bucky’s mind ever following any kind of logical pattern was a null hypothesis. 

So Shuri kept her eyes on the important bit: on Peirce’s mystery drug and the part of Steve that could actually be seen—the scan of Steve’s brain on the computer screen. She clicks through at a couple of different sides, trying to get as many pictures as possible but there really isn’t anything strange about it. Steve’s scan looks normal for all intents and purposes. Normally when someone has taken any kind of drug the results show up one way or another on the scan. Shuri makes a note to get a hair sample from Steve as well and analyze that in case the drug has passed through his system already.

“Do you think he’s scared in there?” Bucky asks, voice soft and a little whiny. Shuri looks at him quizzically—once again, Bucky very rarely worries this much about men he’s fucked. She recalls from the boring parts of his story that Steve really rocked Bucky’s world, and Bucky has always been a curious combination of callous and clingy around his men, but this behavior is downright ridiculous.

“Are _you_ on drugs?” She asks.

“Unfortunately no, but not for lack of trying,” Bucky grumbles, pulling back from the glass and plopping himself in one of the rolling chairs. It slides back a few inches from the momentum and when Shuri looks back at the screen, Bucky—trying to be subtle but not being subtle at all—shifts the chair closer to the window. “I mixed the first pill in with the champagne and I could have sworn I drank that one, but I must have drank the wrong glass instead because I don’t feel _anything_ and then the other one broke,” Bucky sighs, melancholy and overly dramatic without even taking his eyes away from the window. “This is why you don’t mix alcohol and pills, I suppose.”

“That is _not_ why,” Shuri informs him, exasperated enough to say something even though she knows it won’t make a difference. 

Predictably, Bucky ignores her. “I would have been more careful, but I was otherwise occupied and then I didn’t have any time between the precinct and going back to the club and then coming here,” Bucky defended, like being currently sober is really something he needs a defense for. 

“Yes,” Shuri smiles mockingly at Bucky, “I heard you’re on quite the time crunch and still stopped to fuck in a bar.”

Bucky’s whole face brightens. “On a _magnet_ ,” he clarifies and runs the fingers of his flesh hand over his prosthetic. “He knows his way around a Circuit Graft.”

“Magnets make the prosthetic act funny,” Shuri says, the scientist in her compelling her to explain the phenomenon, “outside stimulation gets dulled then amplified. The tech tries to make up for the feeling it missed. Boom and bust.”

“It felt _fantastic_ ,” Bucky states, eyes wide as he remembers. “Most guys I fuck won’t even touch my arm, but Steve _licked_ it, tongued all the groves and the wires and everything. It was better than getting head! Which he’s also unbelievably good at, by the way,” Bucky adds, sagely, and Shuri rolls her eyes. None of that was exactly information she needed to know, medically speaking, but she was rather used to Bucky over sharing his sex life. “He’s something else, Shuri,” Bucky says, soft and fond like he’s reciting a love letter Steve wrote him rather than reminiscing about magnet fucking.

“You really like this guy,” Shuri observes. It’s really not a difficult bit of deductive reasoning. “Did you tell him what he’s getting into?”

Bucky’s face falls, and Shuri hates to have to be the voice of reasoning in these situations but, well, Bucky doesn’t have any other voices of reason that he listens to. “Not… exactly,” he admits. He sounds reluctant. Like he knows better. “He knows I’m in trouble, but I didn’t tell him it was with Peirce. Or, about Peirce. I didn’t tell him anything about Peirce,” Bucky confesses in a rush and he looks rather miserable about it. Shuri couldn’t really blame him. If there were any men brave enough to stick around after learning that Bucky was Alexander Peirce’s stepson, Shuri hadn’t met them. Still though.

“You’re going to have to tell him,” Shuri admonishes, softly. “Especially now.”

“I know. I will. I promise. Just not yet? Please? I’ll totally bring you a milkshake with your burger next time if you let me have sex with him even just one more time. And then I’ll tell him.”

Shuri eyes Bucky speculatively only to be met with his particular sad brand of pound puppy eyes. “Fine,” she relents, “but you have to tell him _soon_. He deserves to know.” _That he’s sticking his dick into the son of the reigning king of The City’s criminal underground_ goes unsaid. There’s no need to say it. Bucky already knows what he is, and why showing any particular interest in anyone who might provide even a modicum of hope and possible sliver of an escape can’t happen without those same men ending up in the east river.

Bucky watches Steve through the window; Shuri can track the movements of the muscles in his face, how they morph from a sad kind of longing into his more mischievous smile in the span of three heartbeats. The one benefit of Bucky’s world, Shuri supposes, is that Bucky can compartmentalize his emotions in an alarming fashion. Much like she does whenever she’s at the hospital, prepping for a surgery. “His foot is twitching. Can we talk to him? About _other stuff_?” Bucky clarifies.

“And say what exactly?” Shuri asks absently, she’s more focused on the lack of abnormality in the scans.

“You can see his brain, right?” Shuri does not answer that stupid question and instead just rolls her eyes at Bucky. “So you could, theoretically, see if he’s lying if I ask him a question.”

“What do you want to ask him about?”

Bucky doesn’t answer her and when she looks at him again to see why he’s gone so quiet he looks somewhat mischievous and thoughtful. She makes a mock gagging noise. “I’m not here to field an expensive lie detector test about your dating life. You know this is all very costly, don’t you? My time and energy not included.”

“You know I’d help you if you asked,” Bucky offers, vague and teasing—half the fun for Bucky is making Shuri fill in the blanks of his innuendo.

“So ironic to hear that just now.”

“You’d be easy to wingman for,” Bucky says leaning on the counter, a little too close to the soda he brought her, and she removes it from his space to avoid a spill. “You got so much going for you. Just point me at a boy you like.”

“I have my hands full with boys I _don’t_ like at the moment.” This quip gets Bucky pouting—he always looks a little like a wet cat left out in the rain when he wants to look innocent.

“You love me,” He says, simple, like the idea that it’s not a joke never would cross his mind. He’s right but that doesn’t mean Shuri enjoys his smug attitude about it. “We can ask him anything you think is relevant, _doctor_ ,” Bucky says like he’s giving up some great treasure to do so.

Shuri picks up the mic and turns it on, “Steve, I’m going to ask you a few things and watch how your brain reacts, okay?”

“Can you hear my answers?” Steve asks, voice coming through staticy and too loud but clear enough for their purposes.

“Yes,” Shuri replies, “we’ll start simple. Tell me your name, age, and occupation.” As Steve answers the questions, Shuri checks all sides of his brain, finds that the parts that indicate lying don’t light up. Bucky spins himself around in his chair a couple of times until Shuri stops it with her foot, the squeaking an unwelcome distraction.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, standing up and getting out of the chair—possibly to avoid annoying her further.

“That’s good Steve,” Shuri says, “now try and tell me a lie. We’ll check what your prefrontal cortex does then.”

“What kind of lie?” Steve asks, voice a little nervous.

“Any kind of lie. Just make something up.”

Bucky snatches the microphone out of her hand and presses the button to ask, “Hey Steve, it’s Bucky. I’ve got a few questions for you.”

“Do you want my help or not?” Shuri huffs, crossing her arms and glaring at him.

“It’s just one question, Shuri. It’s really important. Okay? Like _really_ important.” When she looks unconvinced, he adds, “I’m prompting him for a lie. That’s what you want right?”

She shakes her head but knows that Bucky will just beg and whine at her all night. Besides, Steve’s brain is at least doing something different when he hears Bucky’s voice rather than Shuri’s. She looks at the screen to analyze those results while she warns Bucky, “I do _not_ want to hear a question about your sexcapades.” She notices that the pleasure centers of the brain are going off like holiday lights—flashing on the screen like Steve’s brain can’t choose between aggression and desire. This guy really _is_ Bucky’s type.

**“*Steve, do you really have a cage in your house you lock bad boys in?*”** Shuri is grateful he chose to ask whatever he did in R-12, a clear indicator that it _is_ about his sex life but he was considerate enough to ask it in a language she doesn’t speak—although from the Center City look Steve had been sporting, she’s surprised to find that Steve does. But Steve seems to understand Bucky just fine. Steve stutters to answer on the other end and different colors change on the screen. Whatever inappropriate thing Bucky just asked him, the answer, according to the scans, seems to be ‘yes,’ but that isn’t what catches Shuri’s attention.

“Bucky,” She says urgently, “do that again. Speak more R-12 at him. Ask him to say some back.”

Bucky looks confused but he knows to do as Shuri says when it’s urgent. He babels into the mic, a long form request to ask Steve to answer in the R-12 tongue which Steve complies with. His brain looks incredible. The left side of his brain is a light show, fireworks going off in the frontal, temporal, and parietal lobes and then the motor cortex when Steve responds.

**“*I don’t speak what you’re-*”** Steve breaks off and then starts again, **“*I don’t know how this keeps happening.*”**

“What’s he saying?” Shuri asks urgently and Bucky furrows his brow in a combination of confusion and frustration.

“He’s saying he doesn’t speak R-12.”

Shuri snatches the microphone out of Bucky’s hand and watches the screen while she babels out three of the non-City languages she knows, asking in each one for Steve to tell her which ones he understands and which ones he doesn’t. According to his brain scans he understands all of them--he responds in the affirmative, in each language that he understands her but he doesn’t know how.

Bucky looks confused between Shuri and the MRI machine. Under his breath he says, “Did I just-?” but doesn’t finish.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Steve says, finally, in City and very dejected. “Is this a hallucination? Am I just hearing things? Is this a bad trip?”

“Sit tight, Steve,” Shuri says rather than any words of comfort and turns off the mic. She grabs Bucky by the shirt and pulls his face down to look at the screen while she points at the scans urgently. “There’s something in his brain that’s made the parts that process and learn languages more sensitive—bigger almost. He says he doesn’t speak anything but City but look,” She pulls Bucky down even closer like he maybe just can’t see the screen as well otherwise he’d be reacting better, “he’s understood, minimum, five languages so far.”

“Six,” Bucky amends, “there was this guy at the bar signing—CSL, I think. Steve understood that too. I don’t think he knew it before tonight. Are you saying,” Bucky hesitates, considering, “are you saying the _drug_ did that?”

“That’s the current hypothesis.” Shuri knows that a hypothesis and a conclusion are two very different things, but it’s not an unreasonable working assumption. Steve is a pretty small sample size, after all; it’s hard to say for certain if the language acquisition was the intended consequence of the drug or an unforeseen side effect, something in his own latent DNA perhaps lit up by some unforeseen cocktail swarm of epigenetic onset. She’s willing to place money on the former though. And the implications of that assumption, well, they are rather astounding. 

“Do you know what this means?” Shuri asks, giving Bucky a little shake by the too large shirt he’s wearing in excitement. “That drug was some kind of translator pill. I need blood samples. This could be _huge_!” Sometimes Bucky has this look on his face, usually when he’s talking about a fight he’s been in, where he looks happy but insane at the same time. It’s a scary expression, at first, before one gets to know Bucky and realizes that that’s just what he’s like when he’s talking about the thing he loves most. Shuri knows that she has a similar expression when talking about medical scientific breakthroughs. She knows she must look like that right now since Bucky is looking at her like _that_.

“You can recreate it, right?” He asks, concerned. “Peirce wants it back by the morning. I don’t know what he’s doing with it--”

“I’ve got a few theories,” Shuri answers, turning away from Bucky to let Steve know they are done with the scans, pressing the buttons to both pull Steve out of the machine and to print up the relevant scans she needs. “But I’ll know more when I have the blood and a lab to work with.” On the other side of the window, Steve sits up from the slab, still looking perplexed as he comes out of the MRI, but he quietly hops off to pull his clothes back on.

Bucky, voice still concerned but now definitely distracted by watching Steve redress, asks, “So it’s an anti-babel pill. He didn’t understand me until after he took it.” Bucky’s mouth downturns at that, lost in some thought that Shuri can’t reach.

“He understands everything now. The scans, it’s strange, but it almost looked like the alterations could be permanent. There are no signs of anything left in his system, but the effects are definitely there. I’ve never seen anything like that before. It could be temporary and I just couldn’t see it on visual scans. I need to-”

“Samples. Right. I got you,” Bucky agrees, watching Steve move off into a corner of the MRI room where he can’t see him. He looks at Shuri now, his full attention on her. “Can we use the hospital labs for all that?”

“I don’t see why not.” Shuri snatches all of the prints up from her printer, counts out to make sure she has all the sheets she needs, and then gathers up her messenger bag and some supplies—there’s no time to waste. She needs to see the effects of this pill on a microscopic level. If she really can recreate it, it would change everything. So many of The City’s problems were caused by the divide of tongues that it had just become an ingrained way of life: those born with a silver pallet of City speech and those born without. Very few people even bothered to consider that the world could ever be any different than what it is: A City full of noise.

But there was an old story, a sort of fable, a folk tale, one that her parents used to recite to her at night as a child. A tale of a time when The City had been unified, all the tongues tied together in a certain universal rhythm. In the story, the whole of The City had been able to speak to one another, communicate in a way that had lessened the daily struggle of war. This drug wasn’t that exactly, but it was a unifier. Or it could be. It didn’t take a lot of heavy deductive reasoning, however, to know that _unification_ wasn’t likely Pierce’s plan. Shuri’s watched the news, and lately Pierce wasn’t exactly quiet about his disdain for the Stark Tower plans and all of Stark’s attempts to try and provide even a modicum of translation aid through technology. And then to be able to just swallow a pill… to embody the language of others... that was something else entirely. Language in The City was power, and Shuri could think of a few things that Pierce might do with that power. 

Shuri hadn’t concerned herself as much with the stories her father had told her, or with her father’s vision that one day his dream might become a tangible possibility: That all the people in The City could one day have a voice. There was no science in dreaming and Shuri forged her impact on the districts through the more reliable and realistic means of medicine. Their father’s dream had always been one much more suited for the ideologies of her brother. He could handle the abstraction. And if this drug was real, if it could be replicated, well, T’Challa was going to be thrilled. But only if they could get to it first.

“So what was the answer to my question?” Bucky presses, out of nowhere, visibly trying to shake himself out of whatever had been running through his mind. Bucky did that sometimes, getting lost in his head. Shuri had found it was best to usually just let him find his own way back out. She couldn’t always follow him once he had though. Like now; Bucky had asked a lot of questions tonight and so Shuri can only stare back at him blankly.

“What?”

“My lie detector question! Was it a ‘yes’?”

“Yes,” Shuri confirms distractedly as she reaches forward to shut down the machines, letting Steve know that they are done with the scan and will meet him in the hall.

“Oh really?” Bucky lit up, too enthusiastic in his seeking, which could only mean one thing. “Well you are the dirty boy, aren’t you, Stevie.”

“He can’t even hear you right now,” Shuri groans. “Also, oh my god, so you _did_ ask him a sex question?”

“Of course I did! What kind of other question is there?” Bucky snatches at the cup of soda, sweeping it from the counter up to his lips to take a deep sip of what was allegedly _her_ drink. Part of Shuri hopes the dewed condensation on the plastic will drip all over Bucky’s shirt because she knows how much Bucky hates to look sloppy, only the shirt he’s wearing doesn’t even seem to be his anyway. Or Steve’s for that matter, judging by the fabric. There’s a story there, likely, but Shuri doesn’t want to hear it.

“You are not as cute as you think you are,” Shuri says instead.

“Aw come on,” Bucky pouts, “I’m exactly as cute as I think I am.” He bends forward, drink still in hand as he futilely flips at the switch to the other room. “Hey Steve, you think I’m cute, right?”

***“You’re a cocky asshole is what you are,”*** Shuri mutters in AF-3. She only half means it. Bucky _is_ both cocky and a bit of an asshole but it works for him.

“ _You’re_ a cocky asshole,” Bucky shoots back, his voice whiny and teasing and Shuri whips her head around to look at him surprised.

***“You understood that?”*** She tests.

“Yeah,” Bucky looks confused. “Why wouldn’t I have understood that?” But then Bucky stops, his mouth hanging open as he seems to go through some internal calculation, possibly processing the sharper fricatives on her tongue.

“Holy shit,” Bucky concludes, “This is so cool! I _am_ drugged! Quick, say something else.”

“Something else,” Shuri deadpans and Bucky whines.

“No! Like say some more words and stuff. In other Babel.”

Shuri recites whatever comes to mind, each random word given in one of the strands of Babel she knows: **" _*Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car...*_ "**

“I understand those!” Bucky crows, eyes bright and excited. “Holy shit; I have superpowers. I’m like a superhero!”

“You are not a superhero,” Shuri corrects, possibly a bit too sharply because as fantastic as the drug is, it, or at least the knowledge of it, is also incredibly dangerous. There were men that would kill for that kind of power. And that is something that Bucky needs to take seriously. “Bucky,” Shuri takes both his shoulders in her hands, cupping her palms around the rounded edges of her friend and shaking him a bit like that might somehow make her words set in deeper. “You _know_ Pierce. He’s the number one war profiteer in The City; he must have designed this drug as a _weapon_. A drug that apparently only had two doses and that seems at least on the scans to alter neural processing on a synaptic level. Maybe _permanently_. We have no idea of the full scope of what that means or any of the possible side effects. Right now, you’re basically the human Petrie dish for whatever new weapon Pierce has dreamed up this time. I need you to take this seriously.”

Shuri hoped the fear in her voice would mean something to Bucky. Shake him into reality. That he can’t just go around telling everyone he meets that he’s some kind of super-drugged superman. Shuri was rarely scared of anything. Fear didn’t help in matters of discovery. It was an emotion and an irrational one at that. Except when it wasn’t. Her concern for Bucky in this case was derived from pure critical analysis of the risks. This drug was the kind of thing that either ended wars or started them, and there was no doubt on which side of the motivational line Alexander Pierce fell. Just as she knew that if he found out about Bucky, what he could do now, Pierce would just as quickly turn him into a weapon too. Or finally just kill him once and for all if he couldn’t.

It was a dangerous game, filled with so many moving pieces that they would have to move in just the right way. Shuri wasn’t the kind to play games. Not very often and not very well. Not when the critical factors were so qualitative, requiring the assessment of how human opponents would move. People were simply too wild and unpredictable. In the back of her head, Shuri knew this, but the very idea of a scientific mystery to solve, one with such great applicable purpose, was distracting enough that she doesn’t actually pay much attention to their surroundings as she and Bucky exit the viewing room of the MRI. The layout of the hospital is routine, familiar, so at first she thinks nothing of it when Bucky follows her out into the dark hall and the motion sensor lights don’t come on. There’s the dull red glow of the backup lights, the red ones that stay on to help lead people to the emergency exit. Things tip a little bit sideways, however, the moment they both collide against Steve, who is standing in the hall, hands above his head and eyes fixed on a dark figure up the hall from them.

“Steve what’s-” Bucky begins.

“Don’t move,” Steve whispers urgently. “Stay behind me.”

The tone is hard, urgent and commanding and for a second Bucky gazes up at Steve with a glazed and hungry look Shuri unfortunately knows too well. She’s known Bucky Barnes for long enough to tell when he’s turned on— _reacting_ to signs of “authority” or whatever it is that makes him tick in that unique way that is simply Bucky. And Shuri’s also known him long enough to know his vices, the kind of things that reduce Bucky, the district’s resident “neonglow playboy,” to a pining pathetic mess. Shuri is definitely not looking forward to cleaning up after this Steve guy, picking up the pieces of Bucky that will be left after this latest one uses and discards him—like they always do. Bucky’s too colorful to handle, shines too brightly in his own shadowed world of danger and destruction. The men Bucky brings home tend to like the excitement in the beginning, but they can’t ever handle the risk—and that’s even before they are confronted by visibly armed strangers ominously lurking in dank hallways. Because that, Shuri realizes a little too belatedly, is exactly what’s happening. The three of them are standing open season in a hospital hallway in a lopsided standoff with an armed assassin. 

Steve once again orders Bucky to fall behind him. Bucky is the kind of guy that ultimately will always comply when he wants to, but before Bucky can comply, or question, or whatever it was he was planning on doing, the dark figure—in a motorcycle helmet of all things—aims the gun right past Steve, more in Bucky’s direction and fires. The whole scene plays out in a game of rapid-fire dominos, with each body trying to suddenly leap in front of the other. Bucky shoves Shuri out of the way rather than trying to dodge the bullet himself, and there’s a loud ping and spark as the bullet hits his metal arm and bounces off of it just before Steve pushes his large frame in front of both of them, shielding them from the assailant’s view. The whole thing is as grandiose and dramatic as it is instinctual. In a violent city full of self-serving men, Shuri, as usual, is surrounded by self-sacrificing idiots. Whereas Shuri quickly rights herself from under Steve, Bucky pushes closer, sneaking in a quick brush of his nose against Steve’s neck and breathing out a quiet, “Fuck, that was so _sexy_ ,” with a breathy little moan like Shuri isn’t still eight inches away from them both, and like the shooter isn’t still a mere handful of feet back from them on top of that. It’s not as subtle as Bucky thinks it is. Neither is the way Bucky’s eyes light up at the gunfire, or the way he reaches down to try and readjust himself in his pants like the infuriating adrenaline junky he is. Shuri groans, three feet away from some hired gun and the last thing she’s going to see before she dies is Bucky Barnes trying to cull his unrepentant libido.

It really wasn’t Shuri’s night.


	5. A Widow Among the Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was originally part of chapter four, but that was running a bit long, so here are two chapters back-to-back instead. :)

**Chapter Five: A Widow Among the Wolves**

It’s definitely not Natasha’s night. That’s the first thing she thinks the moment she takes in the slow-creeping clusterfuck of the scene in front of her. There’s a reason she prefers to work as a ghost, to slip through the shadows undetected and let the darkness guide her blade. There’s an elegance to being an assassin—or, at least, there should be. But that isn’t really what she’s here for and that’s the problem. Bucky needs to know that he’s being hunted, which means she has to be _seen_ : visible, loud, and precisely imprecise. That last part is made difficult with the gun; they’ve never been Natasha’s weapon of choice. Too garish, loud, and messy under normal circumstances. As a result, the first shot goes a little narrow, almost actually hitting Barnes before he ducks from it. Nat finds it hard to train accuracy out of herself—not killing Barnes but making it look like she’s going to kill Barnes is going to be much harder than actually killing him would be.

To make matters worse, T’Challa’s little sister, _Shuri_ , Nat thinks she remembers T’Challa calling her once when pointing to a photograph, is caught up in Barnes’ mess somehow and Nat isn’t sure who the big lug in the hall is but he doesn’t look like he’s about to back out of this fight anymore than Shuri does--not if the way his eyes immediately and instinctually flicker to Barnes before they can land on anything else is any indication. Barnes’s gaze doesn’t seem to fare any better. Sure, she hadn’t hit either of them, but she still had taken a shot, so it’s almost hard to not be insulted when Barnes’s response is to smile—a smile not even directed her way but at the guy’s. Barnes bites at his lip in a coy way, eyes raking over the beef cake’s body as the larger man maneuvers to position himself as some kind of shield in front of him, everyone of his over-the-top muscles flexing, ready to pounce. Great. That’s just what she needed: Another one of Bucky’s pretty-but-dumb admirers throwing himself cock-first into a gun fight. Nat had hoped, fleetingly, that firing a warning shot at Barnes might get the two extras to leave him behind. But Shuri grabs Bucky by the hand and runs off with him down the hall, towards the elevator, while the blonde bull, in some grand show of testosterone and misguided chivalry, rushes at Nat and tackles her.

As it turns out, Bucky’s new beau is more agile than he looks. He has her on the ropes, getting her gun wrist in his vice grip and forcing it to point to the ceiling. All Nat can think is she wouldn’t be having this issue if she didn’t have to wear this stupid helmet. She should have asked Nakia or one of her runners to bring her an actual mask or even just a large hat and sunglasses. The helmet is tedious is all she’s saying, but Natasha had been trained well-enough to use anything in her environment to her advantage and that included the durability of a plastic that was designed to win in a hi-speed collision of it against the pavement.

The guy currently wrapped around her, as big and solid as he is, was a close-enough approximation of a steel and granite street, so she headbutts him—gets the guy right in the nose at a sharp angle that sends the blood running in a bright crimson trickle from the center of his face. A little of the blood smears on her visor but he lets go. Any regular, hired hand would have left at that, turned around and walked right back into the hospital where the night staff has long-stopped asking questions when a guy comes in with a busted lip or broken teeth. But _this_ guy, he isn’t deterred in the slightest, which on any other night would have been fun but tonight is just plain _inconvenient_. 

He charges at her again but she’s ready for him this time. Nat kicks her way up the wall to his left and lands behind him, gun on Barnes again and firing.

Barnes ducks, brings Shuri down with him and covers her body with his like all of him could act as a shield for her, not just his metal arm. It’s always sweet when someone does that—acts like their flesh alone will somehow magically stop a .45 at close range from ripping through both of them. The fact that Bucky’s doing it now, even when the kid should know better, is sweet really. Almost noble. For Barnes anyway. It doesn’t really matter either way, though. Not when she can’t get in a proper shot. She can’t fire again without hitting one or both of them and, anyway, the blond bull has his arm around her neck in no time and pulls her back in a quick jerk that sends them both crashing sideways.

As she goes down, Natasha has just enough of a line of sight to see Shuri push Barnes off of her and jump to the emergency lever on the wall to pull it. The red lights start flashing on and off too rapidly to let the shadows settle but too slowly to provide a steady light, creating a strobe-like effect on the room in a grating, pulsating flicker between a garnet filter and the floodlight whites. The contrast is horribly grating on the senses in a way that makes Natasha’s jaw ache with the tension suddenly clenched between her teeth. 

**“*What did you do?*”** Nat asks in RU-19 because she’s frustrated and not really looking for an answer so asking it in a language no one but her speaks seems like her best course of action. Only--

**“*What did _we_ do?*”** Barnes says, utterly haughty and incredulous despite the situation—all in perfectly pronounced RU-19, a form of Babel she _knows_ Barnes doesn’t speak, no matter how close RU-19’s borders are to the R-12. **“*You’re the one trying to shoot at _us_ when we were completely minding our own business.*”** And yeah, from everything Nat has heard or read about Barnes, mouthing off to a masked assassin seems on par with his personality. As does the fact that Barnes doesn’t even wait for a response before addressing the hulk of muscle grappled below her, suddenly speaking in what her ear can vaguely pick up as his native R-12. **“*Police are on their way, Steve. Let her go. We have to get out of here.*”**

Be it the R-12, the RU-19, or any of the other leftovers of the soviet quarter, Nat knows a Red Zone native when she sees one, they all do, which is also why she seriously doubts that the veritable poster child for The City’s center on the other end of her headlock speaks any R-12 or RU-19 either. And yet he too responds in _both_.

**“*She’s trying to kill you,*”** the guy yells out in R-12, words that Nat can’t understand herself but still gets the gist of when he switches to RU-19 to say directly to her, **“*You better pray that you don’t.*”** The words aren’t even clumsy on his tongue. Even in this highly stressful situation he has no hesitation in translating what he’s saying, sliding hard and cold from the slit of his lips. Nothing about that can be good. Nat reads people for a living—literally. Her survival, her ability to keep on living in the world she inhabits, is dependent on her ability to read people on every molecular level. Either Nat has lost the ability to discern district loyalties or something very odd was happening. 

Nat elbows the man below her— _Steve_ , Barnes had called him—in the ribs. He grunts at the hit, something that Nat would almost say sounds excited, like Steve’s enjoying the fight and isn’t ready for it to end. He takes a couple of jabs before he lets go. Nat can tell he’s ready to re-grapple, but the moment she detangles from his heavy form she rolls away from him, jumps up, and rushes towards the elevator.

Shuri calls out to Barnes before Nat can reach him, considering Nat is going at half-speed on purpose, allowing plenty of time for Shuri’s sudden cry to echo through the hall. It’s a word Natasha doesn’t recognize, FR-7 maybe, made even more distorted by the way the wall panels reverberate the sound. The fact that Shuri speaks in tongues that aren’t her own is less surprising though. According to T’Challa, Shuri is brilliant, speaks more variants of Babel than he does himself: A talent she claims is honed from years spent in the ER, but rumor attributes to the alleged hoard of contraband books T’Challa’s family had supposedly kept and preserved for countless generations after The Fall. Natasha has never seen the rumored library herself, but then again, she never had any real interest in books. She spoke plenty with a blade, finding comfort in the only true universal language of a life bled dry.

Barnes, on the other hand, seemed to understand Shuri just fine, altering his course of direction on a dime, tripping a second alarm bell to override the elevator’s emergency shutdown mechanism before circling back to Shuri. The doors of the emergency lift slide open at the bell, and Bucky shoves Shuri into the elevator, babeling at her in the same FR-7, which Nat doesn’t understand other than the word “Garage.” For whatever reason, Bucky lets Shuri and the elevator go, taking a hard right into the stairwell next to the lift instead. Nat chases after him. The elevator doors have already shut by the time she gets down to the hall and the flicker of the strobes distort any possible depth perception of the stairs . That’s not enough to stop her. Not even on a bad day. She needs Barnes—or at least the drugs. If someone doesn’t get the pills delivered to Pierce by dawn too many heads will roll. It was supposed to be easy: A quick and dirty facade of a kill-shot and a slight of hand lift of the pills. But Barnes had to go and get laid instead and bring some overly-muscled and hyper-dedicated beef cake into the mix to fuck up the dynamics of the job. What an infuriating, unpredictable jackass. At this point, it would be a miracle if Barnes hadn’t just already taken the drugs himself. That wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility; Barnes lives recklessly, fast, hard, and without thought of consequence, and certainly wouldn’t hesitate to put an unknown drug into his system.

Natasha moves quickly down the stairs, but Barnes’s latest piece of overgrown Boy Toy is in the stairwell just as fast, chasing her down as she fires a few shots at Barnes and hears more than sees them bounce off his arm or lodge into the wall. She grabs the railing and jumps over, catching herself on the landing one floor down where Barnes skids to a stop to avoid running into her. Without Steve grappled with her to block his shot, Barnes pulls his own steel out of the holster; he shoots and almost gets her but she ducks. **“*Pierce is not going to be happy with you,*”** She warns him and Barnes glares at her. Hearing the man’s name is enough to make him shoot at her again.

At the sound of the shot, Steve forgoes the last landing of the stairs entirely. Jumping over the rail in a haphazard yet focused way to land a little further away from them both, adding a tuck and roll in the final moment before impact to avoid breaking his legs. The propulsion of the movement spirals and collides right into Natasha, making her fall over in a way that she hopes has not been caught on the comms; even though _The Black Widow_ is allegedly _dead_ , and no one has any reason to assume otherwise, she still has a reputation to maintain out of sheer principle. 

Steve takes Barnes by the hand and pulls him along, rushing down the staircase while Nat tries to catch her balance. Her head feels like it’s loose and rattling around inside of her helmet. She takes it off, chucks it at the wall in frustration and is on her feet again to chase them to the garage floor. No comms in the stairwell and the emergency lights are still strobing too fast to give the comms in the garage a clear view of her face. She’s sure she can find something less restricting before she gets out into the street.

*

Stepping out of the elevator into the dark of the garage floor provides a blessed moment of tranquility. Shuri can only assume Bucky will manage to keep the assassin distracted on the stairs for a bit of a while longer; Bucky’s usually pretty good at being a distraction. As it stands, he’s at least kept the woman at bay for now and there’s rarely many people around the garage level at this hour, so scanning herself into the garage is no problem. Neither is finding an ambulance. All the vehicles are sitting in the dark, the dull light of the room only turning on when she moves. She scans her ID badge to open one of the ambulances but it doesn’t work. Shuri pulls, hard and angrily, trying to get the door to let her in but it won’t budge. She tries the passenger side door and still nothing. The back door opens—that’s when she remembers that Doctor’s clearances are different from EMTs. Sure she can get into more places than an EMT in the hospital itself, but when it comes to the ambulances she can only unlock things relevant to her job; such as pulling a gurney and patient out of the back to wheel them inside. She won’t even be able to start up the car even if she climbed in through the back seat. The only people who have clearance to drive are the EMTs.

She shuts the back door with a little more force than necessary, needing even just a small outlet for her frustration which is easier for her to deal with than the terror that she’s about to be shot—that Bucky might already be shot.

She rushes to the coat rack. Even if she steals a badge to start the car she doesn’t know how to drive the damn thing. They aren’t like regular vehicles. The controls are different specifically to keep people from stealing them if they’re left unattended. This is a rule that makes sense when she’s not desperately fighting for her life. She can’t worry about that just now. First she needs to find a loose badge and then she’ll just figure out the controls from there. She’s smart. She can put it together, hopefully fast enough.

“Doctor Adanna?” Shuri nearly jumps out of her skin at the question and turns around, hiding her hands behind her back as if that is going to keep what she was doing a secret. She grimaces at the EMT’s quizzical face that is strangely sporting a wide smile, like he’s happy to see her. “I thought that was you,” He says it like a wish has been granted.

Of course it would be him—the fresh-faced, albeit kind of adorable newer recruit that had had the balls, along with the alarming lack of foresight, to assert himself into an argument with Dr. Strange earlier—and on her behalf no less. Of all the EMTs in the entire hospital of course _this one_ would be the one guy working late and alone and inquiring after why she’s rummaging through coats. “Hello,” She begins, holding out the sound while her eyes try to zero in on his name tag, “Parker.” She says once she has it. His smile grows bigger; he’s maybe too happy she knew his name.

“I didn’t think the doctors came down here unless we had a drop off.” The distant ping of the alarm is muffled by the garage’s concrete walls, but it’s still loud-enough to echo through the garage. He glances around the room, looking for something--most likely an explanation. “Is there something going on?” It’s a calm question for the situation, delivered in an even calmer affect. Anywhere else, such a casual demeanor might itself be cause for alarm, but Parker does emergencies for a living. 

Ever-so, Shuri still doesn’t have an answer to his question. There is quite a lot going on but nothing that Shuri can explain just now, even if she did have the time which she definitely doesn’t. Parker can’t be here. He could get hit with a stray bullet when Bucky, Steve, and the hit woman come crashing through the doors.

“I thought you would have gone home by now,” Shuri’s eyes are on his badge--she could at least get an ambulance started if she can swipe it off of him.

“Oh no,” Parker laughs and scratches the back of his head, “you and I have the same shift. Remember? I always wave at you on the crosswalk.” The guilt she feels at that is a little too much to bare just now. She waves at everyone, she sees hundreds of people every day, waving is a reflex more than a greeting, but Parker, evidently, thought they had some kind of rapport. No wonder he stepped in with Strange earlier. A blush raises on his face and he touches his hand to his heart--coincidentally over his coveted badge. “Are you down here looking for me?”

“Yes,” She says, quickly, and steps towards him. She puts her hand on his shoulder, subtly turning him away from the door that Bucky and Steve are set to come through. “About earlier. I wanted to talk to you. But it’s late, so maybe you should go home and I’ll find you in the morning.”

“No, no,” He insists, pulling away from her only to rush over to the driver’s side door of the ambulance. “I wanted to talk to you too. I’m glad you’re here.” He leans into the ambulance, digging around for something inside and Shuri risks a glance behind her. Nothing is coming but she imagines she’ll hear them before she sees them. If they aren’t already dead. She rolls her eyes to the sky and hopes that she doesn’t accidentally get Parker killed as well. “I got you something,” Parker says, pulling out of the car and handing her a large, plastic wrapped box. Shuri blinks down at it, the fluffy pink and yellow candies an odd image in the current situation. “I know you like them,” Parker goes on and she looks up to see he’s blushing again, looking at the ground, and scuffing his feet on the floor. “When you’re having a bad day I always see you heating them up in the microwave.”

Shuri blinks at the box in its cellophane wrapper, the little trapped faces of the marshmallow peeps stare wide-eyed back at her in all their misshapen absurdity. It’s the kind of thing that not even Bucky might know to bring her. A comfort she only turns to in times of higher stress levels. Like this one, she supposes, wryly. It really is an oddly sweet gesture. 

“They look so weird,” Shuri acknowledges, dully, her mind trying to wrap around what’s happening here and her mouth only responding on impulse. She looks back down at the box of pink and yellow peeps--half are shaped like the traditional bird and the other half rabbits. She’s never put the rabbit ones in the microwave before. She’s curious about what they’ll look like when she does. “Before they explode.”

Peter laughs and nods. “I thought that, you know, you’ve had a bad day and I didn’t help with that. I thought this might help.”

She clutches the box to her chest--he looks so eager and sweet. He knows her well enough to know she likes peeps, to know that she likes them specifically for the microwave thing, and that she only does it when she needs a pick-me-up. And here she is barely even knowing his name and trying to steal his ambulance from him, possibly getting him killed or fired or worse. He’d be in so much trouble if she got out of the garage with it. Even more than he might be in already for mouthing off to Strange in front of everyone.

There’s a loud crash behind her and she remembers that being fired is maybe the least of Parker’s worries. Besides, technically, it would be Bucky’s fault, she thinks. Parker steps in front of her, like he’s trying to shield her from whatever made the sound and says, “What was that?” just before Steve, locked in hand to hand combat with the motorcycle masked assassin, comes bursting through the door. Only she doesn’t have her mask on anymore--her red hair stark and wild against the black of her suit.

Shuri tugs on Parker’s sleeve, pulling his attention back to her and says, “I need your help. Don’t ask questions.”

If he takes any time to think that over at all it isn’t long; he’s nodding and saying “Of course, anything,” even as Bucky comes through the doors firing at the redhead.

“Steve! Move out of the way!” Bucky shouts.

“I’m trying!” Steve yells back as he wrestles with the woman on the ground. Parker’s eyes go as wide as the peeps at the display, Shuri takes Parker by the hand and pulls him towards the driver’s side of the ambulance.

“We need to get out of here,” Shuri says and tugs on the door with her hand. “Can you drive us?” She’s about to tell him that it’s important, she’ll explain everything later, the police are on their way, it’s life and death and the sake of the entire city is at hand but no explanations are necessary, not for Parker, because he scans his badge and hoists Shuri into the driver’s seat.

Her face feels flush—he lifted her so easily. He’s stronger than he looks. She climbs into the passenger seat to make room for him to get behind the wheel and check his rear view.

Parker doesn’t move the car. He just watches the fight in the side mirror, fingers tapping out patiently on the steering wheel. Shuri looks out her own side--Steve is on top of the woman now and Bucky is still trying to find a place to aim his gun. She leans out the window and shouts at them, “Get in!”

Bucky looks torn, like he wants to get in, get away, get _not shot_ in a hospital garage only not as much as he doesn’t want to leave Steve. The indecision makes him tremble and he fires the gun again, the bullet hitting nowhere near where the two titans are fighting.

The woman gets her thighs around Steve’s neck and twists until their positions are flipped: her on top and Steve pinned to the ground. This is when Parker moves; fast and frantic if not precise as he shifts the ambulance into reverse and slams the bumper into the woman. There’s a loud sound of the impact and she goes rolling hard off of Steve. Parker leans out the window and calls out to her, “I’m sorry!”

Shuri flies to the back doors and shoves them open. Bucky leans down to pull Steve up and Shuri takes the blonde’s other arm and hoists both of them into the back, shutting the door and locking it.

“Is she gonna be okay?” Parker asks, desperate and still guilty from the front seat. “I hit her pretty hard.”

“It’s a hospital,” Steve pants pulling himself to standing position, “she’ll be fine.”

“We have to get out of here,” Bucky says coming closer to the front and leaning over Parker’s seat. “The police are coming. Get us out.”

“What?” Parker asks, incredulous and uncooperative with Bucky asking him a favor and not Shuri. “Why would we run from the police?”

“Because I don’t have time to deal with Wilson right now. Drive!”

“Are you a criminal?” Parker asks, and looks back at Shuri for explanation. “Doctor Adanna are you being held against your will?”

“No,” Shuri says at the same time that Bucky unhelpfully says, “That’s two seperate questions.” 

Shuri knows Parker deserves an explanation, but there isn’t time for that right now. The assassin has recovered from Parker’s fender bender and shoots at the back of the ambulance, the strobe lights flickering the visual journey of the bullet into frozen stop motion fragments. The doors and windows are bulletproof but Shuri isn’t sure how many shots it would take at the hinges or the locks to get the doors open.

Bucky cocks his gun and presses it to Parker’s temple. The red light bleeds down the left side of his face in an ominous omen that Shuri knows Bucky would never actually act on. Not on some hapless medic. But the very idea that he’s even willing to play at it highlights his desperation better than any of the synthetic starlight streaming through the windows can. “I said ‘drive’,” He commands and while his metal arm holds the gun steady, Shuri can see his flesh one is twitching anxiously at his side.

Parker glares up at him, just as stubborn and shakes his head. It’s a rather impressive display of bravado, or maybe even actual bravery, but another shot hits the ambulance and Shuri stands up. Bucky might not really use his gun, but the assassin obviously will; they don’t have time for displays of valor that might get them killed. “Parker,” She says and Peter’s eyes are off of the gun at his head and onto her instantly, “You said you’d help me, no questions. Remember?” Parker nods, says a small ‘okay’ and then shifts the ambulance into drive and presses the gas so hard the momentum throws Bucky back and he has to catch himself on the passenger seat. Whatever Parker’s equivalent of marshmallow peeps is, Shuri knows she owes him a metric ton of it. 

*

Natasha groans as the flatbed of the ambulance collides with her shoulder, sending her sprawling hard into the unforgiving cement. All she had been trying to do was do a friend a favor. Maybe get out of the cooped up self-appointed prison of the safe house for a little exercise and stimulation while she waits for the precinct to build a case against Hydra so she can finally get her life back and she had been hit by a fucking car. Nat can’t even remember the last time she had been hit by a car—probably in training. It wasn’t like she was a total amature. She had been taught how to roll into collisions during basic, the best way to twist one’s body before impact to do the least amount of damage. The City liked their special forces determined and willing to lose a few pieces, but one skill that was driven into the basic training is the best way to get knocked down so you could get back up again. Offensive moves as opposed to defensive, the idea being that any target or violent situation should be escalated by the officer and no one else. If you bring the violence, you control the violence.

Still, she hadn’t expected some punk kid to knock her off his personal beefcake boy toy bodyguard with a _car_ and the bruise is already forming on her side from the impact from rib to hip. She can’t see it but she feels it: the pooling of blood beneath her skin across one side of her body. She knows the kid wasn’t trying to kill her because he easily could have by backing up faster, making the hit harder, his only goal was to displace her. That had worked but she got up, the training beaten into her long ago to always _get up_ so they can’t beat you again, so they can’t get away.

The first few steps are shaky while she adjusts to the pain, willing it into a dull ache, something she can ignore, while she snatches a lone scarf off of the coat wrack by the door and ties it around her face, leaving space for her eyes. It’s enough to fool the comms, to create doubt if Peirce and his men should be looking for her. But that matters less and less with every passing moment. If Nat can get to Barnes and his beefcake, get the samples of the drugs to Nakia, then all of this with Peirce is over anyway.

She doesn’t have time to get her bike—the one Nakia procured for her, the one she rode in on. The one that is parked on the other side of the building because she didn’t figure Barnes would be _this_ difficult to catch. She doesn’t need the bike, she just needs to catch up to the vehicle, which shouldn’t be that hard considering the amount of traffic that churns through the City Center even at this hour of the night. 

She gets a running start from the back of the garage, and her side burns and aches but the adrenaline sparks inside her and suddenly the pain is something distant and irrelevant. She jumps, kicks off the slick brick wall of the garage door and lands in a crouch on top of a taxi that is flying by. She stands, gets her balance even before the driver underneath her has time to lean out his window and shout curses at her, and her eyes find the ambulance in seconds. It’s not too hard, the vehicle stands out and they aren’t going any faster than the rest of traffic—most likely not thinking there’s any kind of hurry. Even if there were other ambulances around them, Nat is pretty sure that the unique serial number of the vehicle is imprinted in her body.

She hops from the roof of the taxi to another car, this one with a small family in it and children fighting in the back seat. The next hop she almost slips, there’s something slick and unidentifiable on the roof. She’s only two more car jumps away from the ambulance when she hears sirens in the distance. They aren’t the specific wail of ambulances--this sound is for the TCPD and Nat mentally clocks how long it took for them to arrive in the area from the moment Shuri had pulled the alarm. The police are not her problem; they’ll be searching the hospital, and shouldn’t think to check for missing ambulances.

The whole City seems to go rushing by in a slow motion blur as she makes her way up the rest of the line, the roadways its central vascular system, pumping the sluggish vitality of the City’s inhabitants around what remained of its heart. The whole tablu is such a swirl of color, chaos, and violence, that Nat feels instantly more invigorated, more alive than she ever could feel cramped up in some off-grid apartment. Her safety be damned. Maybe it’s that accumulated restlessness that makes Natasha a little more brash than she usually would be. A little bit more careless and flashy. Nat makes the final leap onto the ambulance with a wild twist and hits the back doors to the ambulance square on. She hangs there, suspended for a moment as her hands find purchase on the sloped curve of the roof. From the other side, Shuri, Steve, and Barnes stare at her through the glass, mouths agape and eyes disbelieving. They all sit in a kind of momentary freeze frame that they don’t break until Nat tries the knob and finds the door is unlocked. Bullet proof doors but no one on the other side thought to lock it.

The moment she opens the door, Barnes’s first move, once again, is to dive and protect Shuri, which Natasha has to admit she respects, even though Barnes has to be smart enough to know by now that Shuri isn’t the target. If she was, any self-respecting assassin would have gone through the windshield at the front. Either way, swinging her body weight into the french door split of a moving vehicle on battered ribs isn’t an easy feat. For once, Natasha finds she needs both of her hands to accomplish it, which is really the only reason that Bucky is able to come out the quicker draw. He aims his gun at her but before he can pull the trigger, Steve-The-Beefcake has made his move. This guy seems to really only have one problem solving method, Nat thinks, as Steve slams his body into hers in a tackle. If she didn’t have such a firm grip on the door they would have both gone spilling out into the street, into moving _traffic_ , which means Steve is reacting, not thinking, only trying to push the problem, literally, away from Barnes.

The door swings wide and slams on the outside, the momentum pushing it back and when the door is close enough Nat tucks and rolls inside sliding between Steve’s spread legs. The driver, an EMT, starts screaming, “What is going on?” trying to choose between looking at the commotion in the back seat and watching the road.

“Just drive,” Bucky orders him after the guy turns around to look back for the fourth time, “we got to lose her.” The EMT probably doesn’t understand, doesn’t have a clear idea of how to do that in a congested city awash with garish light, but he nods anyway like having a goal is the most important thing: A plan is not necessary to reach a goal. He turns the sirens on and then slams on the accelerator as the other vehicles move out of his way to allow him through. It’s much harder for her to hold on, to keep her balance, as the force of the car swerves and turns trying to shake her out like the last M&M stuck in the bottom of the bag. Shuri works in the hospital and seems to know enough about emergency vehicles and their speeds to know to grab on to something solid in the car to keep from being thrown out. Bucky, in contrast, is in the jump seat, and although he isn’t using a seat belt, the force of the ambulance only jostles him into sitting. Steve and Nat are the only two not holding onto anything so even as Nat spills out so does Steve.

What’s truly amazing is that her scarf stays on; she tied the knot good but also it doesn’t even slip off of her despite the rolling and the smashing into the windshield of the car unfortunate enough to be driving just behind them. What’s less amazing is the screech of the tires, the smell of burnt rubber that fills her nostrils, and the ricochet zing of pain that shoots up her spine as Nat’s torso collides with a moving vehicle for the _second_ time that evening. Steve lands right on top of her and the weight of him feels about the same as a car. Nat growls, thoroughly annoyed, but Steve is still on top so he stands up right on the hood of the car and gets his bearings first. From up ahead, the ambulance continues speeding away from them, the driver still focused on getting them _away_ and not stopping to pick up the precious cargo they’ve lost. Nat wouldn’t even consider Steve to be all that valuable but he apparently is to Barnes at least because in the distance she can see Barnes waving his gun and shouting something at the EMT before he takes the ambulance into a sharp and dangerous U-Turn.

Nat is on her own two feet now, unsteady but confident. The driver whose car they’ve landed on finally hits the breaks, sharp and sudden, and although Nat stays upright and on the hood, Steve goes falling back. Nat reaches out on instinct, grabs Steve by his shirt and pulls him forward. He looks rightfully confused by her rescue. She’d done it on reflex, or maybe even just out of a general need not to see an innocent bystander of Barnes’ reckless choices get splattered onto the pavement. In order to correct and distract Steve from this compassion she punches him in the face and feels a satisfying crack through her hand in Steve’s jaw.

The ambulance is coming back around, all the other cars honking and the people screaming in different tongues wondering what is going on. Steve looks like he wants to punch her back. She had gotten in a good hit and the blood spilling from his nose is flowing steadily down his chin, making it look even sharper, more defined, than it already did. For a drawn out beat of a moment it looks like he’s going to, too, but the sirens of the returning ambulance are just as suddenly blaring behind him and he instead makes a blind jump onto the hood of the ambulance just as it passes. Nat is quick enough, agile enough, to make her own leap back onto the vehicle, catching herself on the swinging back door, and instead of climbing inside this time she clambers onto the roof. She notices when they pass the hospital again, the teal light of the gargantuan ‘H’ hanging over the roof of the building bathing everything under its radial circumference in a sickly pale blue. The blood on her knuckles looks purple, as does the blood on Steve’s face under the glow. So too, do the lights of the chasing TCPD cruiser take on a violet tinge as the red lights swirl around them, drawing closer in. Natasha grimaces as the sirens blare, the clash of sound from the ambulance and the police alarms grating off one another in a discordant melody. Of course seeing two people car surfing and causing property damage on the highway, on top of an emergency vehicle no less, would warrant TCPD pulling them over. Nat can’t even name all the laws they’ve broken in the last few minutes.

Steve climbs up from the hood to the top of the car; he’s getting better at holding his balance on a rapidly moving vehicle, even one a little slick from the earlier rain. He takes on a defensive stance and she wonders if he’s going to tackle her again or if he’s learned what a bad move that is from last time.

The TCPD cruiser is right behind them now, the sirens so loud that nothing else can be heard coupled with the sounds of the ambulance and the stimulation of the red and blue lights from both sides. Nat can’t even make out the noise of the cars around them now. But she hears it loud and clear when the TCPD officer behind them turns on his speaker and says, “This is Officer Wilson of the TCPD. Pull over _now_.” 

From below them, the EMT does not pull over, but there’s a swerve and something like the brake being pressed just before a hard acceleration indicating that he really might want to. That maybe he would if he didn’t have a gun to his head.

The speakers on the ambulance ring out in reply. “We can’t really do that,” Barnes says, “We’re kind of busy here.”

“ _Barnes_?” Officer Wilson shouts into the microphone, which kicks back a loud screech that has both Nat and Steve wincing and covering their ears. “Barnes, you are in violation of several city laws. Pull over.”

There’s a short pause before Barnes replies, “Barnes? Who the hell is Barnes? I don’t know a Barnes. You have the wrong guy.” Nat finds it more than a little impressive that this Officer Wilson was able to recognize Barnes just from his staticy voice over the speaker. She can only imagine what that means. According to his files, Barnes was all charm and petty misdemeanors; he didn’t seem like the kind of guy that would spend that much time in a precinct. At least, not enough for a central cop to know him by voice alone. That was interesting information. 

Rather than verbally replying to Barnes’s denial, Wilson kicks the gas up on his cruiser, swerves into the opposite lane and brings the cruiser up next to the passenger side door. He locks gazes with the person on the other end of the window and levels his gun, keeping one hand on the wheel. “James Buchanan Barnes, pull over or so help me God-,” Sam warns.

Steve has his balance now but he seems to be struggling between the only two options: toss Nat from the ambulance or be tossed himself. Nat isn’t sure she wants to kill anyone--she doesn’t even like pretending to try and kill Barnes but the stakes are higher for her, and for Bucky’s life, than they’ve ever been. She drops down and kicks to sweep Steve’s legs out from under him. He goes down, not expecting her to drop instead of standing.

Barnes leans out the window and shouts back, “This is a really bad time, Sam.” Barnes isn’t aiming his own gun at the man and seems less than concerned about staring down the barrel of a cop’s. If it ever came down to it, any good cop wouldn’t really shoot him. Not for jacking an emergency vehicle and speeding in it, anyway. There will be an arrest in Barnes’s future, sure, and, under the circumstances, Nat doubts that this is a mess that Peirce will get him out of this time—if only because Peirce wants him dead and out of the way—but it’s nothing a central cop on the up and up would kill him for. The whole display suggests that 1. Barnes thinks this Detective Wilson is a good cop, and 2. Barnes trusts Wilson to stay that way. That, too, is interesting information. 

She doesn’t have the drugs yet. She doesn’t technically need them alive to take them, but she had taken the job in the first place to try and spare Barnes his life and she really doesn’t want to kill him if she can avoid it. Nat doesn’t know Steve at all, which should be an easier disposal, but she can’t kill Steve either, she realizes, as she watches Wilson make more or less the same choice. Barnes’s cop is true to his morals. He pulls his gun back into the car and uses the hand to talk into the speaker instead. Nat climbs onto Steve, straddling him about the waist and keeping him pinned to the top of the car so he doesn’t go flying off. She punches him, because it can’t look like she’s trying to save anyone if Peirce sees the hired assassin at work on the comms.

Whatever the detective was going to say is delayed if not lost when a car coming down the street in the cruiser’s lane refuses to pull over despite two different types of sirens blaring, and Officer Wilson has to slam on his breaks and pull back into the correct lane.

Barnes, turns his body around, still hanging out the window, and fires a shot that grazes Nat in the bicep. She bites down on a scream. It hurts to lift her arm to throw another punch and Steve takes full advantage of the delay rolling them over so he’s on top.

Barnes climbs further out of the window, clings to the top and holds himself in the ambulance, just barely, by setting his thigh against the window sill. He’s got a much better chance of hitting her fatally now and she’s wondering if he’s really going to do it. He’s hesitating, his brow furrowed in indecision so he doesn’t know either. He doesn’t want to, that’s clear. Nat knows better than most the look of a man who can pull a trigger as easy as he lights a cigarette. If Barnes were such a man, had such a look in his eyes, she’d be riddled with holes already.

“How far do you think you can run?” Officer Wilson chimes in and that’s a good question. It’s not exactly Nat’s concern, not yet anyway, there are too many other problems to work through first, but it’s something Barnes should be thinking about.

“Please stop following us,” a young boy’s voice comes out of the ambulance speakers, rushed, nervous, and a little high-pitched. Not Shuri’s voice so it must be the driver. “This is just a misunderstanding,” the driver insists.

Barnes, to delay his own struggle about shooting her, ducks back into the ambulance and, judging by the way it swerves and careens, has a scuffle with the driver. There’s yelling, she can more feel it in the metal of the car than understand it. The sirens are too loud. The swerve throws Steve off of her but this time she doesn’t roll to grab him. She’s not getting anywhere trading top and bottom with him. She needs to kick him off--he’ll go sailing straight into Wilson’s windshield but it won’t kill him. She’ll keep one subject in tact, she’ll have an easier shot at catching the second. Barnes, who is now leaned out the back of the ambulance trying to shoot out one of Wilson’s tires, and Wilson will be effectively off their tail for the moment.

She’s ready to do it, rush at Steve and use his own weight against him. Steve has rushed her no less than three times in the last fifteen minutes and he, evidently, picked up on her method for avoiding that kind of attack. She charges him, the matador and bull roles reversed, and he catches her about the waist and spins her, his body giving into the momentum, and then tosses her right into the windshield of Wilson’s cruiser.

As he swerves, the car spinning out dangerously, she could almost laugh; years not being hit dead on by a vehicle and here she’s done it more than twice in one night. Seriously, fuck James Buchanan Barnes and his Rambo Boy Toy. 


	6. Bright Lights, No Stars

If Bucky were capable of any kind of sexually based shame he’d be embarrassed to admit that, even in this time of extreme anxiety and crisis, Steve looks pretty hot sliding in through the ambulance doors in the back while the car is still moving. Steve’s body is just so long and cradled in muscle, with more agility than a man his size should possess. And Bucky can’t help but salivate a little as Steve grips the top of the car and then swings in, landing on his feet, heavy, like he just finished a difficult set of pull-ups. Steve probably does do a lot of pull ups. Bucky can picture it easily.

“Everyone okay?” Steve asks, short of breath but definitely sincere in his question. Shuri points at the doors behind him.

“Close those,” She orders. Steve turns around, strong arms pulsing, and pulls the doors shut. Shuri swaps places with Bucky, him rushing back to get to Steve, and her getting into the front seat to check on Parker.

“Doctor Adanna,” Parker says, voice still shaking and hands still moving, rapid and graceful over the controls, to drive them out of sight of any police pursuit—last Bucky saw, Peter was driving them straight into a one-way street going the opposite direction. “I’m not gonna ask any questions. But I want you to know I’m pretty concerned.”

Bucky gets to Steve in the back. He catches himself on the gurney when Parker swerves— hopefully to get them going the right direction on the street. Whatever is happening in the front seat Shuri has a handle on it, clearly, since Parker is still driving. He hasn’t shown any signs of stopping unless she tells him to, and Bucky can just make out the directions that Shuri is giving him. Bucky doesn’t need to worry about that part now. He doesn’t need to worry about the assassin trying to kill him now, or Wilson in pursuit, thanks to Steve.

It’s partly gratitude that has Bucky reaching up to stroke Steve’s face. He’s real, he’s deadly, and he’s perfect and Bucky loves to touch him—but mostly it’s the heat coiling in his belly and the need to feel Steve’s body pressing into his. He _owes_ Steve and something about that makes his face flush and his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Bucky figures he should really be a _good boy_ and find a way to repay him. He certainly has some ideas. 

Bucky’s fingers curl around the strong curve of Steve’s jaw, flickering over the skin. He can feel the stubble growing there, new coarse hairs coming in under the already soft and present ones of his beard. “Bucky,” Steve asks, soft and breath still a little short from his ordeal, “are you okay?”

“I didn’t shoot you, did I?” Bucky asks, hands moving downward, feeling around Steve’s arms as if bullet holes are found by touch and not blood gushing from an open wound. Steve lets him. He puts his hand under Bucky’s chin, delicate but firm, and lifts Bucky’s face so their eyes can meet.

“I asked you a question,” Steve’s breathing is steadying out now. He clearly doesn’t wear out from fights on top of moving vehicles. He seems almost as relaxed now as he did after he finished with Bucky in The Pynk Room. His focus is on how Bucky is doing. On _making_ Bucky answer him, follow orders, be a good boy.

Bucky feels instantly calm, reassured in a way he so rarely gets to feel as he nods. “I’m fine,” He says, for a moment wondering if he should have made up an injury or played up some fear just to get Steve to fuss over him. There’s something about Steve, the way he orders the things he wants, that makes Bucky want to comply. Judging by the way Steve is looking at him and still holding Bucky’s face with his strong hand and cold gaze, Bucky doesn’t need to lie about anything to get Steve’s attention. Bucky already has it; that complete focus like he’s the only thing in the room and Steve is mulling over a very important decision between kissing him or hurting him. Bucky hopes he does both. 

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Bucky says a little distantly because the words are true but seem unimportant; almost meaningless. He’s sorry that Steve might get hurt, sorry that he’s had to go through so much trouble when Bucky promised it would only be an hour or two, but he’s not sorry that Steve is here with him now, pinning him down with his grip and his gaze like Bucky is the only thing in the world. 

Bucky remembers that they aren’t alone. That Shuri is in the front seat getting her own soft words of comfort from the EMT as well as a few compliments about how cool the guy thinks she is. But that knowledge is hard to hold onto when he’s in Steve’s sphere of attention. If Steve looks at anything else, lacks in his intense focus on Bucky for even a moment, Bucky feels like he might die.

“You’re not sorry,” Steve says, low and warm in a way that makes every muscle in Bucky’s body tense up. “Not yet, anyway. But I’ll take care of that later.”

The enticing threat in that declaration sinks in and as each of Bucky’s muscles melt with it, his mind drifts back to chains and cages. Bucky can already tell that Steve is a man of his word; he only makes promises he can keep.

Bucky presses his face forward, nuzzling into the warmth of Steve’s neck and Steve’s hand follows with him, his large, strong fingers still curled around the base of Bucky’s chin. Bucky inhales; exhales; breathes. “You going to _punish me_ , daddy?”

Steve groans, fingers flexing. Bucky hopes they leave a bruise.

“Bucky?” Shuri asks, turning around in the front seat to talk to him, breaking him out of his little spell. Steve drops his hand and then shoves it into his pockets, maybe to keep it from venturing onto Bucky again. Bucky curses the circumstances of the evening. The time crunch. The pulse of the clock. He bets in another time he would have been able to get Steve to pull him over his knee right there in the back of the cab. If he played his cards just right, riled Steve up enough at just the right angle, Bucky could probably get Steve to _discipline_ him in front of an audience. Men didn’t fuck boys within an inch of their sanity in the backrooms of public clubs two inches of plywood away from the eyes and ears of both patrons and their bosses because they valued privacy and discretion. It’s such a shame, Bucky thinks, but Shuri does need him and he owes her even more than he owes Steve, even now, so he bites softly into Steve’s neck to mark his place for later before he pulls away, leaving behind an impression of teeth on the tendon as he makes his rickety steps to the front.

The ambulance is going the limit now, with the sirens off and Parker obeying all of the street laws—at least the ones Bucky knows and probably a few more that he doesn’t. Bucky reaches up and grips one of the ceiling handles, something to hold him steady in the sway of the car. He’s getting used to the motion.

Shuri has a box of peeps in her lap, two of them gone and a third in her hand with the head bitten off and he can’t imagine where she got them in all the commotion. “I told him to go somewhere we could stop for a minute. Get our bearings.”

Bucky nods. He’s not sure they have time to get their bearings but they do need to reformulate the plan. The hospital is out as a lab option and Shuri is going to need somewhere safe where she can work. He puts a hand on her shoulder, gives it a firm squeeze and she reaches up with her peep free hand and pats his hand kindly.

Parker is looking at them. He’s clearly trying to make it look like he _isn’t_ looking at them but the kid is really bad at it. “Not going to pull any tricks are you?” Bucky asks him. The road they’re on is empty and getting darker the further they pull away from the light pollution of the core districts. Bucky wonders if they were to just keep driving if they would at some point find an end to The City’s endless sprawl. Wonders if they’d be able to see stars at the edge of the world. But he knows such things are a long forgotten dream, long since obscured by the reach of The City’s synthetic glow.

Just like the starlight, fast tricks are futile in a City so cruel. There is no real escaping the inevitability of its magnetic pull. Parker, at least, seems smart enough to understand his position in the world. That some things were simply bigger than resistance. But Bucky still looks at him expectantly until Parker shakes his head “no,” quick and nervous. Bucky has no idea how a kid this uptight and fidgety can drive as smooth and calmly as he did a few minutes ago. But maybe that’s a necessary skill for someone who drives an ambulance. Maybe Parker got the job because of how good he can drive in an emergency situation. Or, possibly, Parker isn’t usually nervous at all, even in extreme situations, and, given the way the kid keeps looking more at Shuri than the road, that it’s being so close to Shuri herself that’s making him fidgety and worry the way he is.

It’s almost precious, Bucky thinks, how badly Parker must want to please Shuri if he’s willing to break several City laws just to be near her. Maybe Parker was an alright guy after all.

“Of course he’s not going to pull anything,” Shuri chides Bucky, “we can trust him.” Bucky glances at Shuri, he wonders if she’s noticed it. To Bucky it’s clear as a curse spoken in his native tongue: Parker has a crush so massive he’s committed a grand total of twenty three crimes, misdemeanors, and citable traffic violations in half an hour and hasn’t asked a single question as to why. Judging by the way Shuri chews on the other half of her peep, her hand reaching in for a fourth before closing it up and setting it on the dashboard, she’s more focused on the babel pill with a bonus sugar chaser than anything else. And yet, then again, she doesn’t eat the peep. Instead, Shuri looks over at Parker and presents it to him. He smiles, genuinely shy and wholesome—a world away from the way Bucky acts when he’s only playing at innocence—and turns his head, mouth open so she can pop it inside.

He says “thanks” or something like it, it’s not exactly clear from a mouth stuffed with sugared marshmallow. Bucky sees Shuri’s thumb brush quietly over Parker’s bottom lip during the exchange, some of the pink sugar still sticking to the pad of her thumb, and she licks it off without thinking. 

“I guess given the circumstances I believe you,” Bucky smirks, looking at both of them and their soft sugary exchange. They ignore his pointed tone, too wrapped up in their own distracted little moment that—knowing Shuri—she probably doesn’t even know she’s having. Bucky makes a mental note to spell it out for her later. He’s got a whole talk already planned out, starting with, ‘ _You see, when two nerds really like each other…’_. 

Come to think of it, Bucky might need to spell it out for Parker too, because Shuri looking at him all sweetly in the soft pink moonlight filtering in through the windshield would have been the perfect time for a soft boy like Peter to make his move. Bucky’s done all sorts of things with his mouth while behind the wheel of a moving car and he doesn’t have half of Peter’s skill on the road so he’s pretty sure that the kid is agile enough to kiss and drive. 

But Parker looks back to the street instead, only risking a glance back at Shuri when she gestures towards a pull off point and Parker gently maneuvers the car to the side of the road. He puts the ambulance in park but doesn’t turn the engine off, like he’s not sure how long they’ll stay there, and Bucky takes a moment to look around, assessing how safe the spot is and determining that it will do for now. They must have traveled farther after the chase than Bucky had realized. From far off on the horizon, the glow of The City still looms in all directions, but Parker seems to have found a circular patch of shelter from the lights. The night is so dark that the headlights only stretch out a few feet before they’re swallowed up by the wild darkness of what Bucky can only assume must be one of the forgotten districts in one of the offline cracks of The City.

With the car parked, Parker turns to Bucky fully, eyes wide and unassuming like he’s only seeing all of him for the first time, which is probably the case. “I’m Peter Parker, by the way,” Parker says, teeth still sticking with marshmallow and completely cordial like he’s really happy to introduce himself to Bucky.

There’s no way that _Peter Parker_ is anything but this guy’s actual name. Bucky’s not sure how to respond to that. It’s probably too late to worry about giving the guy a false name back himself either. They flew past that ages ago. Particularly when Wilson had arrived on the scene and shouted “Barnes” out of the cruiser’s speaker system for the whole goddamn strip to hear. Still though, no streetwise City dweller went around offering up their full given name so casually to strangers like that. This kid had a deathwish, surely. Or he was just that wholesome and naive, Bucky wasn’t sure yet. There’s a beat of silence that draws on a second too long as Bucky tries to weigh the risks of offering up his own known name to what is ostensibly a kidnap victim. 

“Steve Rogers,” Steve offers instead from behind Bucky with zero hesitation and Bucky groans. So that’s _two_ wholesome and naive Central City boys then. Bucky spins halfway around to glare at him in warning but Steve moves across the bed of the truck to slot himself behind Bucky, standing suddenly so closely that Bucky can feel the heat of him against his back, seeping in, like everything about Steve is made to sink in warm and heavy into all the cracks of Bucky, keeping him full and docile. Bucky relaxes and Steve smiles, crouching down and hooking his chin over Bucky’s shoulder to hold out a hand to Parker over the back of the seat, “We appreciate your cooperation.”

Bucky lets out an unattractive snort of a laugh at that because he’s still _technically_ waving a gun in Peter’s general direction to keep him compliant. Bucky is about to point this out to the crew. That Peter is only here helping for his own selfish reasons (be that the gun to his head or the gooey heart eyes he keeps making at Shuri) and that’s not something Steve should waste time _praising_ , when he feels Steve’s hand, warm and large through the thin cotton of Brock’s oversized shirt, rest on his lower back. Speaking of being compliant, Bucky melts into that hand, leaning back into it and praying that Steve will do more with it than keep it there, maybe slip it up and under the shirt and then down, lower into his jeans. But Steve just keeps his hand steady, curved into the small of his back; Bucky feels both held in place by a leash and like a boy wound too tight as he itches for a promise to be fulfilled.

“I’m happy to help. I didn’t have any plans tonight anyway,” Peter smiles up at Steve, genuine, friendly, maybe a little _too_ happy to be of help to them--to Steve at least. Peter really does have a sincere “gee golly thanks, mister” attitude about him that Bucky doesn’t care to be compared to. Not in front of Steve in any case. Steve who still has one hand splayed and smoothing its way across Bucky’s spine as the other stays extended outwards in offering to Peter, who takes it cordially, giving it a good shake.

Bucky bristles at the sight of the contact. Never mind that shaking hands is something that civilized people often do, and that Parker obviously has his stupid gooey dough eyes exclusively reserved for Shuri, and that even if he didn’t, Bucky has no claim over Steve who was himself a stranger not even eight hours ago, Bucky still doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like to share.

Bucky wonders if Steve can sense his jealousy, his general displeasure with Parker’s disposition, because before Bucky can even raise his hackles against Peter any further, Steve finally slides his hand under Bucky’s shirt, palm slithering and slow as he taps over each vertebra with quick and warm fingers. And just like that Bucky relaxes—an instrument being played by expert hands. He hums out a sigh in response, something melodic, and Steve’s fingers curl and tighten. 

“I need some air,” Shuri says, opening up her door and sliding out. She pokes her head back in and stares at Bucky. She’s so short and the car is so tall that her chin only comes up just above the seat. “You need some air too.”

Bucky’s body is preoccupied with being Steve’s upright bass—he’s very sure he doesn’t need anything that Steve doesn’t tell him he needs. He can’t go outside _now_ , those fingers are getting lower and Bucky’s stomach is twisting at how the calloused digits will feel inside him. But at Shuri’s beckoning call, Steve pulls his hand out and slaps Bucky on the back, gives him a little shove in Shuri’s direction and agrees with her, “Get some air, Buck.”

Bucky pouts back at him, resistant, but there’s also the familiar thrill in compliance—at least in complying to the will of a man who looks like Steve. So Bucky climbs out after Shuri with a put upon sigh, mouthing a sly, “ _yes, sir_ ” as he jumps down from the cab with a little salut. The hungry look Steve offers him in return is the kind that almost has Bucky diving back into the car. But Shuri is already pulling him the rest of the way out of it, hovering near him in case he trips or otherwise loses his balance. Resigned, Bucky closes the door to distract himself from the man behind it and walks a few feet to the side of the ambulance. Not quite out of sight but far enough so they can’t be heard. Shuri obviously has something to tell him. She wouldn’t have cock-blocked him for no reason. 

Sure enough, the moment they are out of earshot, Shuri starts talking. “I think we should go to Erik’s,” she suggests, quickly, like she’s been holding the idea in too long—or maybe because she’s hoping if she says it fast Bucky will miss what a bad idea that is.

Bucky blinks, forcibly pulling himself back into the present moment to focus on Shuri and their current conversation. “Please tell me you aren’t thinking of your cousin Erik. Please say that there’s another Erik you know.”

“He has a lab,” she insists. It’s a risky move, possibly a terrible one, but Bucky has to admit that he’s considering the idea pretty seriously. They’re running out of time, and Shuri ultimately generally has more good ideas in a week than Bucky has had his entire life, and Erik’s does offer a lot of what they need to get through this night.

“I know,” Bucky admits, “a lab that T’Challa said you were forbidden from going back to.”

“‘Forbidden’,” She scoffs and waves her hand in the air like the word is a cloud of pestering smoke above her head that she can just bat away. “He can’t ‘forbid’ me from anything. He just very strongly recommended that I not go there. It was more a preference than anything.”

Bucky sighs. “You know I’m a big fan of making trouble but you’re already in enough because of me. I don’t want to make it worse for you by disobeying--”

“These words you keep using,” She says, “like ‘disobey’ and ‘forbidden’ are dramatic and not helpful. Erik and T’Challa had that,” She makes the first syllable of ‘fight’ before she stops herself, trying not to use any of those ‘dramatic words’ she’s just chided Bucky for using, “that _disagreement_ months ago. They’re both over it by now, they’re just being stubborn.”

“He does have everything you’d need to recreate the drug.” Bucky can’t be sure that’s actually true, exactly. He isn’t a doctor, or a scientist, or even a Central academy graduate. Bucky knows a lot about drugs: how to use them, where to buy them, and how to sell them. He knows which pills will make a man fly and which ones will let him fuck for hours. But he doesn’t know shit about how to _make_ them. He does know Erik though. At least enough to know that there isn’t any piece of tech or sliver of biome that Erik won’t have in his lab. And he knows Shuri enough to know that she would still be able to come through with less. 

Shuri nods her agreement with his assessment. “Besides,” Shuri reminds him, “Erik is closer. We could go to one of T’Challa’s locations but we’d have to drive back across town. We could get caught or shot at again.” She doesn’t mention that T’Challa’s labs also meant driving right into Peirce’s crosshairs. She doesn’t have to. The struggle between T’Challa and Peirce’s factions for control of The City weren’t a secret. And neither is the knowledge that Peirce kept constant eyes on all of T’Challa’s men. Another benefit, Bucky supposes, of T’Challa’s fallout with Erik was that Erik had pretty much fallen off the map. 

“Erik _is_ as far under the police radar as you can get,” Bucky agrees, which also meant, by extension, under the radar of whatever gun Peirce has aimed in his direction. Bucky has to admit it’s the best plan he’s heard all night and by no coincidence it’s Shuri’s plan and not one of his own half baked schemes. 

“You see?” She smiles very smug at him: It’s her best look, Bucky thinks. “I’ve thought this through. Besides he had an argument with T’Challa, not with me.”

“Alright,” Bucky admits, using the heel of his gun to scratch the top of his head. The wind out here is strong with fewer buildings around to hinder it and his hair keeps getting in his face. “You win.” Bucky gives in a little easy; he wants to be back in the car, wants to be moving now that there’s a destination, a plan, and currently no one shooting at him. “What do we do about the EMT?”

“We don’t have to do anything with him,” She breaks eye contact with him, something very unusual for her with Bucky. Unless she has a project in front of her, her focus is always on the person she’s speaking with. But not now, now she’s looking around the abandoned cityscape and up at the fuzzy simulation of stars. “He’s been very helpful.” It puzzles Bucky for a few moments before he realizes that she’s _bashful_.

He grins. He’ll have to tease her a little more about this later because he definitely had called that one. “Okay,” He says instead, still smiling, and the way she refocuses on him and glares tells him she knows why. “We can keep him. But you have to feed and walk him every day.”

“You are being very annoying for someone who can’t keep his hands off of _Steve_ for longer than two minutes.” She points at his organic hand, twitching without his permission at his side. “You’re fidgety just being out here without him.”

He’s about to tease her, make some lude and overly detailed comments about Steve’s body to make her mock gag or cover her ears and shout at him to shut up. Something to create levity in this depressing situation. But his phone rings, because Pierce has other plans, always lurking a step or two ahead of Bucky to keep him from feeling _too_ safe and _too_ happy. Bucky looks at his phone and grimaces. “Fuck,” he says, “it’s Peirce.”

“Don’t answer it,” Shuri urges him but he’s already waving her off and handing her the gun.

“Becky,” he reminds her and she sighs, taking the gun from him even though they both know that she won’t actually pull the trigger even if Parker tried anything. “Keep an eye on your emergency loverboy,” Bucky says anyway, answering the call and walking around to the other side of the ambulance to keep the others out of earshot. He’d managed to keep his friendship with Shuri a secret a lot longer than he’d ever expected was possible given all of Alexander’s eyes around The City. The last thing Bucky needed was for Peirce to hear Shuri in the background and put her in danger now. Bucky being her friend complicated matters, at least Peirce would see it that way, and then there’d be nothing to stop Pierce from using Shuri in the way he was using Becky now. 

And then there were the others to worry about. Bucky doesn’t really know Parker, which could either make him less interesting to Pierce as a pawn or utterly disposable depending on his mood. Parker seems like a decent enough guy and Bucky doesn’t want to see him as another collateral casualty in Peirces’ wargames, so Bucky is hoping, however naively, that the case might be closer to the first option. But then there’s Steve. Steve is an entirely different matter. Alexander knows Bucky’s type. The whole city knows Bucky’s type. Anyone who took one look at the two of them would know the kind of leverage they could manipulate out of the situation with the right maneuvers. The high octane clusterfuck of the evening had left Bucky with little time to fully reflect on the situation: assassins and car chases and Wilson breathing down his neck, but the frozen chill that ran down his spine at the sound of Peirces’ voice crackling through his cellular is a cold reminder of the larger picture. Knowing Bucky—being near to him—is a dangerous endeavor. At least Shuri knows the risks. Steve doesn’t. Not really. Shuri was right. He needs to tell Steve who and what he is. 

From the other end of the line, Peirce drones on with his questions and threats and Bucky leans back against the cool side of the ambulance only to startle as Steve suddenly appears from around the other side to join him. Maybe Steve does have some sort of super power, sensing the most acute moments of Bucky’s distress and seeking him out. But Bucky is distressed for a reason and that reason is in keeping Steve as far away from the voice on the phone as possible. 

Steve takes a step closer and Bucky widens his eyes, his index finger coming up to frantically gesture out a ‘shushing’ motion in Steve’s direction. Steve pauses, brow furrowing in concern. 

From beyond the static, Peirce’s voice grows sharper, colder, “Are you listening to me, James?” 

“Yes, sir.” Bucky grimaces at how forced the two words sound, his heart pounding as he shoots Steve an apologetic glance. The term feels like ash in his mouth. Like something that should never be said in front of Steve when not directed towards him. 

Something in Steve must agree because the crease in his brow grows deeper, eyes flashing in the overhanging dark. 

Alexander sighs in his ear, unimpressed. “Eight hours, James. I don’t have time for your childish games. Don’t make me make you regret this night more than you already will.” 

And Bucky hates himself and Peirce and the circumstances of the moment that all collide that force him to say those words again. Looking at Steve’s dark gaze, curious and burning, as Bucky repeats, “Yes, sir,” with a resigned finality, a waxen seal on his miserable fate. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers as Peirce clicks off the line, an apology directed both anywhere and everywhere. He has a lot to apologize for and many to apologize to, and a hoarse confession in the swollen and sullen night air of The Lost Districts doesn’t even begin to absolve him. 

The moment he pockets his phone, Steve is on him, the thick weight of his body pressing into Bucky’s chest, pushing him back against the ambulance's metal siding. 

“Who?” Steve growls, low in his ear, and Bucky wants to lose himself in the heedy possession that pulses through the vibration. But he knows he has to tell him. That Steve deserves to know. 

“Peirce,” Bucky says and he can’t seem to take his eyes off the grass along the road, subconsciously counting the shards of old bottles and cans that haphazardly sparkle in a mixture of glass and tin, “Alexander Peirce.” 

There’s a prolonged pause as Steve takes in the name before he stiffens and inhales in dawning recognition. “Barnes,” Steve murmurs, like he’s connecting the pieces. “James Buchanan Barnes. I knew I had heard that name before. The news feeds; the accident...,” Bucky doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes trail to his arm, mind churning, assembling all the fragments he must have read about in the press. “You’re Alexander Peirce’s step son.” 

Bucky nods. He can tell from the slow comprehension in Steve’s voice that Steve hadn’t known before that moment who Bucky was, but that he also knows now what that means. Steve had been truly blissfully unaware that he had been sticking his dick into the son of the most dangerous, ruthless, and powerful man in The City. He had promised Bucky blindly that he would help him fight a war against an unbeatable army. And Bucky had selfishly plunged Steve into the very heart of the City’s darkness because Bucky had never been strong enough to walk away from all the things that men like Steve had to offer. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says again, because he is. Weak, but sorry. 

Something in the air shifts as Steve’s body softens over him, his deep voice switching to something soothing and gentle. “Oh, sweetheart, no.” Bucky still doesn’t really want to look up and see whatever emotion currently resides in Steve’s eyes. The disappointment. The betrayal. So he doesn’t. Even when Steve’s voice lulls Bucky to tilt subconsciously forward into the heat of Steve’s chest. It’s comfortable there. A world away from Peirce. Safe. Only it’s not. 

“It’s not your fault,” Steve says with what sounds suspiciously like conviction. Bucky’s pretty sure it is his fault though. There isn’t anyone else to blame. He was the one that seduced a stranger in a club, tongue-fed him hard candy, and pulled him into the poisoned webs of his world. 

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” Bucky repeats again, because he can’t think of anything else. There’s a lot going on. The night feels heavy and vast in a way that Bucky isn’t used to. Bucky has always loved the night. How everything about the pulse of the City’s darkest shadows make him feel energized and alive. How the sky would light up in the deepest hours with all the artificial colors of an aborted dawn. The City was dangerous, delicious, an old friend with benefits that Bucky lived for. Only the night and all its promises to hurt and hit and give had only ever been his and his alone. The danger and its fallouts had never loomed so precariously over other people he cared about. That was the difference and the stark contrast in that substitution was insurmountable. 

Bucky must make some kind of sound because Steve shushes him again and Bucky can feel the adrenaline rushing through his system. Trapped without its usual outlets, the spike of it begins to make his muscles quake. And suddenly the entire heat of Steve’s body is engulfing him, wrapping Bucky up in the welcomed warmth of his arms and Bucky melts as he whines. There’s just something about Steve, solid and immovable, and he feels like a new kind of absolution. A gateway to escape. He feels exactly like all the things Peirce is most threatened by. The things Peirce will never let Bucky keep.

But Steve knows now. At least he knows some of the risks and he seems utterly unconcerned, still solid and casually wrapped as he is around Bucky’s quivering form. 

“You’re mine.” It’s a promise, a statement. It’s exactly what Bucky wants to hear. 

Bucky nods against Steve’s chest. Because he is, or he wants to be. Which is crazy, maybe. He didn’t even know Steve the day before. He might not even know him now. That sort of thing had never mattered to Bucky though. He opens up fast and falls hard. He always has, but no one else has ever rushed so quickly to keep up and catch him. Not until Steve, who might just be as crazy as Bucky is: A matched pair of impulsive intensity. 

And just that notion, the very idea that Steve might live like Bucky does, embracing the highs of The City as they come, always all in when it came to the game of Risk and Reward without a hint of hesitation, has Bucky’s own conviction crashing back in. Things were happening all around them. The chaos of The City was always swirling and threatening to crush them to dust; but that fear could be a drug if he let it. It could make him braver. Stronger. 

“I need--” Bucky starts, squirming in Steve’s grasp just so he could feel all the grounding points of contact. But there were just too many ways to finish that statement, and he whines again, breathy, as he settles on, “ _everything_.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, voice low like a secret, “let Daddy take care of you.”

A shiver jolts through him, jerking his hips forward within the solid cage of Steve’s hold. And in that moment all Bucky can feel and focus on is Steve, the only thought left in his head a reverberating mantra of “need,” and “please,” and “ _yes_.”

-**-

Shuri was a patient woman, but that didn’t mean she liked to wait. Especially when she didn’t know what she was waiting for. 

As Bucky had flipped open his cell to answer Peirce’s comm, Shuri had made her way back to the passenger’s side of the ambulance. At some point during the chase a dent had appeared in the door and Shuri felt a little bit bad about the destruction of hospital property as she had to pull harder at the bent frame to get it open. Once she had wrenched the door wide enough, Shuri slid into the front seat of the ambulance, keeping the gun poised on Parker and hoping she looked as menacing to him as Bucky had. Parker had simply smiled at her, that soft shy smile he had when he first approached her in the garage, like a reflex--something Parker has to do when he sees her.

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve had asked immediately from the back, voice even but slightly alarmed, and Shuri had to fight not to roll her eyes at the worried tone. Part of her wanted to point out that the only thing around them for a good mile radius were cicadas, old bullet shells, and grass. And that even if they weren’t currently alone and off grid, just because Bucky maybe didn’t always make the best life choices, he wasn’t exactly some damsel in the dark. Bucky had to live with Peirce. He could handle his steel. 

But then again, Steve didn’t know that. And fuck, was that ever a Damocles sword if there ever was one. Like it or not, Bucky would have to tell him soon. And if he didn’t, she would have to. Shuri didn’t want to ruin Bucky’s newest little tryst either, but Steve needed to know how large of a target his being here with Bucky put on his back. Although she supposed that a high speed car chase with a masked assassin was probably a decent hint. 

“He’s fine. He’s on a phone call outside. Listen, Steve,” Shuri had started, wondering if now was the time to just rip that band aid off. But Steve didn’t give her a chance, seemingly too distracted by not having Bucky in his sight. One moment Steve had been sitting in the jump seat in the back of the ambulance, and the next minute he was out the door. And now all Shuri can do is _wait_.

“So, um,” Peter says in the ensuing silence, gripping the steering wheel and then letting go of it, his hands the most fidgety part of him, “your boyfriend is pretty intense.”

Shuri blinks at him confused for a moment as she stares at the open back doors from which Steve had disappeared, trying to work out if Peter was referring to Steve. Peter gestures at the lax grip of the gun in her hand though and Shuri snorts when it dawns on her, “Oh. You mean Bucky?” She asks, amused and incredulous, “Bucky isn’t my boyfriend. Gross.”

“Oh good,” Parker says, laughing awkwardly but clearly relieved. “So what’s your actual boyfriend like?”

Shuri peers into the side mirror, looking for any signs of either of the guys, catching a fragment of Steve’s broad back in the reflection off the glass. Whatever Bucky and Steve have been doing since Steve left to go after him is taking too long. Alexander isn’t the kind of man who lingers on the phone. He knows exactly how long he can threaten or deliver orders over a phone line before it’s traced and Bucky had already been gone past that time. She wants to get to Erik’s lab and she wants to get there now. Her fingers already itch for a beaker and a centrifuge. 

From out of the bottom corner of the mirror, Shuri can make out how the blurred shape of Steve’s torso shifts to reveal that Bucky’s right there with him, writhing his body back against his. And as much as Shuri hates to wait for nothing, she really isn’t about to wait for _this_. Shuri rolls down the passenger window to yell out into the night, “Come on guys, let’s go!” before she looks back to Peter again, trying to recall what they were just talking about, “What?”

“I mean do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend? Or anything like that?” Peter can’t look at her the second her eyes are on him. He looks down at his hands on the steering wheel again instead.

Shuri shakes her head, distracted, “I don’t. No. Haven’t had the time.” Finally, disjointed sounds of commotion flurry in from the back—the noise of two people clumsily climbing up into the back bank of the ambulance. With growing impatience, Shuri looks behind her to see Steve’s long forearm reach out to pull the back doors closed, all while Bucky stays wrapped around Steve’s torso like a sex crazed octopus. Shuri groans internally as Bucky moans out loud. At least they got in the truck so that Parker can drive. She tries to stay focused on Peter. She’s known Bucky for a long time. She has plenty of practice in blocking him out. “Pull back out towards the highway. We’ll want to go straight on the old XL4 for a while.”

“Right,” Parker says, “Um, you seem like you’re pretty busy.”

“This isn’t a typical night for me,” Shuri says, defensive because how could anyone—other than Bucky—think this kind of thing is a typical night? She’s not even sure Bucky has had a night this weird before. But then again, weird for Bucky still isn’t weird enough for him to stop leading the evening with his dick for even three minutes. Out of her peripheral, Bucky’s back makes a dull thud as it collides with the side of the ambulance, phone forgotten but still clutched in his fingers as the tall slice of living granite that hasn’t left Bucky’s side goes in for Bucky’s neck with his lips. 

“Oh no, I know,” Parker says, quickly, blushing either from the display in the back or the sudden rush to make himself clear, “I just meant, like, because you’re the top bioware medic in the city. You’re always working. I’ve seen you work through lunch before.” Maybe it’s the weirdness of the night, or the downright lewd contrast to the sound Bucky makes as he lets his phone clatter to the floor, but Parker is kind of cute when he’s flustered. Not that she’s seen him unflustered but probably he’s cute then too. “You’re dedicated. Is all I’m saying. No one works as hard as you.”

“I like what I do,” She says, not sure why she feels she has to explain it. “I like it more than anything else. I want to do it all the time.” This is true even now, with their lives in danger and the police after them, her mind is still itching to get to a safe lab and recreate what happened to Steve— _Steve_ , also known as the guy who brazenly has her insane best friend pinned against the inner wall of a goddamn ambulance like the sudden swerves of movement from the road below mean nothing to his central balance. Or like those swerves don’t mean that someone else is obviously driving their inconsiderate insatiable asses through the outskirts of the A-6. That they have an _audience_.

Parker nods. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, eyes firmly on the road in front of him. “I wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry.” That throws Shuri a little considering she’s technically the one holding Parker at gunpoint just now. “About earlier today,” he explains, “with Dr. Strange.”

Shuri wants to laugh again because that incident, that feels like ages ago after what they’ve been through, but was only a couple of hours, had slipped her mind entirely. “I know you were trying to help,” She says, instead of “it’s okay” because she’s not sure that it is. She hasn’t had much time to process it.

“I did it in a bad way though. I made it worse for you and I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” She feels something like relief wash over her. An unexpected apology where she didn’t think she’d get one. Didn’t think she needed one but once Parker says it it’s clear to her that she did. 

It’s a rather sweet moment, almost calming, at least right up until another thud echoes through the cabin as Bucky swears. The word sounds slavic. Steve answers him in Bucky’s own Bable, something that twists on the tongue and Bucky whines, a slur of _“Steve”_ and _“sir”_. 

Shuri rolls her eyes, but keeps them fixated on Peter. There will be time to tease and chastise Bucky for being a rude, sex-crazed asshole later. And as long as Bucky’s attention stays occupied by Steve in the back, the calmer Shuri can keep Peter up in the front. “Can I ask you something?”

Parker laughs. His laugh is kind, even when a little nervous. “I mean, you have a gun on me so: yeah.”

She doesn’t really. It’s still in her hand and she could still use it but she’s not actively pointing it at him or anything else. The energy has shifted after the chase, a tenuous calm. Peter’s one of them now, sort of, at least he’s in this enough that he’s not going to try fleeing or whatever it is Bucky thinks he’s going to do if he’s not in fear of his life. Not that Bucky—judging by the way he suddenly shouts, _“fuck, sir, right there--PLEASE”_ in perfectly discernable City— seems to even remember that Peter’s even there right now. Or anyone else for that matter. Shuri had seen Bucky get wrapped up in and lost to the lust of a moment more times than she can count. But poor Peter isn’t her or any of Bucky’s other friends that are used to putting up with his bullshit labido, and she instantly feels a little bad for Peter, maybe even a little responsible for his well being. She sighs, rubbing at her temples. This was turning into last New Years at the ski chalet in the S-7 district all over again.

“Why do that? With Strange?” Shuri presses Peter, refusing to look behind her, because she’s seen enough ambulance interiors to know that they come with stretchers, which to a pleasure-seeking asshole like Bucky is the same thing as a bed. It doesn’t take a lot of deductive reasoning to know what Bucky sounds like bent over one. “Why did you step in?”

Parker blushes, a deep and obvious red spreading to his ears and a little on his neck as the springs on the stretcher rattle and squeak. “He was wrong. He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

The rattle of the stretcher screeches into something violent. And if Shuri didn’t know Bucky better she would almost be inclined to go crashing back there herself to check on him. Still, she pauses a moment anyway to be sure, just long enough for Bucky to confirm his consent with a gasped enthusiastic, “ _yes_ ” and “ _harder_ ”. Satisfied that Bucky is at least where he wants to be even if no one else is, Shuri turns her attention back to Peter. 

“He speaks to everyone like that,” This isn’t true either, it’s just what Shuri is used to hearing when she complains about Strange to the other doctors. It’s auditory reflex that makes her respond with that: It’s what everyone is _supposed_ to say.

“He shouldn’t,” Peter says firm and frustrated, “You could stitch circles around that guy. Everyone knows it, especially him, and he shouldn’t be allowed to,” Parker breaks off, frustrated with the memory and taking a beat to collect himself. “You should have his job. One day you _will_. And he knows it. So he tried to belittle you in front of everyone to protect his ego. I hated seeing that.”

She’s not sure what to say. He’s right and she feels good hearing him say it. “I’m sorry too. That I snapped at you.”

“I get why,” his smile is easy now, comfortable, like the weight of this conversation had been hanging more heavily over him than the car chase or the assassin or the two assholes groaning away in the back. “A doctor doesn’t need a lowly EMT rushing to fight her battles for her.”

“I respect you,” Shuri says, needing to make that clear, since Parker mentioned and labeled himself as someone beneath her, “I respect EMTs I mean. What you do,” She shifts in the front seat to get a little closer to him, “I shouldn’t have implied that you’re beneath me. Doctors that is. What you do is important, too.”

“You know,” his voice is soft, bashful, but he’s not looking away from her anymore, and she likes the smile lines on his eyes, “I’ve seen you in the OR. Your hands,” he glances down at them, fond and admiring and it makes her feel hot under the collar, “it’s like watching a ballet. The way you move and heal. Your hands are so light and precise. They’re beautiful.”

“You watch the surgeries?” She asks, voice also a soft whisper and she’s pulled even closer to him without realizing it--he can’t move in his own seat, needing to drive, but still, the space between them feels smaller and smaller every moment.

“I like to watch the surgeries,” he admits, that blush dipping below his neck line, and she wants to know how deep it goes as he amends, “Well, I like to watch _your_ surgeries.”

There’s a playful urge in Shuri to tease him about that, even though it’s sweet and she’s flattered—or maybe _because_ of those things. She’s about to tease him over it. Ask him if he’d like an autograph or to bring a giant foam finger to the observatory for the next surgery. But there’s another heated and wanton set of noises from the back again and now she’s too annoyed and embarrassed on Parker’s behalf to tease him. The interruption comes from Steve this time, cutting Bucky off in the middle of a moan, his hand clamping down over Bucky’s mouth, and then shushing him with a _not_ quiet and husky, _“You’re such a whore for it, aren’t you?”_

Something thuds, followed by a sharper slap of skin on skin and Bucky squeals, voice still muffled by the wide breadth of Steve’s palm. That is until Steve lets him breathe, Bucky’s ragged gasp inhaling shallow and wet, and Shuri is pretty sure there might even be the start of real fat and desperate tears in Bucky’s voice as Bucky cries out, _“Daddy!”_

Peter’s hand flies forward and presses the radio on and cranks the volume up loud enough to drown out the noises behind them. Probably loud enough to keep Bucky and Steve from hearing each other but Shuri has no sympathy for them—only sympathy towards Peter. 

The music plays on, one song fading into another, and provided each song has a discernible rhythm, the men in the back at least appear to find the beat, so that each slap of skin, each low grunt from Steve and higher wail from Bucky that manages to still slip through blends in a rhythmic symphony of sound. Leave it to Bucky to turn semi-public fornication in the back of a stolen emergency vehicle into an art form. 

The reprieve finally comes in the middle of some classic rock song that Shuri can’t quite place. The guitar solo is long, a crescendo of sound, and Bucky lets out a final harmonizing moan, back to chanting in a form of babel that Shuri fortunately doesn’t speak. But given the drugs in his system, Steve understands Bucky just fine, his own voice positively elated as he admonishes him in City, “ _Jesus, Buck. Such a dirty fucking mouth._ ”. 

The song’s refrain kicks back in, a louder tempo that obscures the rest as Bucky makes another noise of agreement, and Steve growls out something about _get_ and _on_ and _knees_ and _"so dirty; I’m going to come in it."_

Shuri rolls her eyes. At least that probably means Bucky will be quiet for a moment. Which he is, more or less, at least enough that he can’t be heard over the switch to the next song. The track flips, Peter awkwardly coughs, and then Bucky is just _there_. Flushed and grinning, and unabashed with bright, wet tear tracks still staining his cheeks, he leans over the low wall divide to stretch his torso forward into the front seat between them and turns the radio down then starts to switch between stations. There’s sweat on his temples and his shirt has changed; Shuri is pretty sure it’s Steve’s. She’s not sure she wants to know what that left Steve wearing. 

“Don’t do that, please?” Parker says, “I have them pre-set to specific stations.” When Bucky makes it clear that he’s not going to do as Peter has asked, Shuri smacks him hard on the hand and he withdraws, whines like a spoiled child, but withdraws his hand all the same. Peter immediately switches the station back to where he had it.

“Mean,” Bucky pouts at her and she glares back at him. He looks confused and rubs his flesh hand with his metal one as if her small slap is anything close to the type of pain Bucky is used to, the kind he seeks out even in the back of medical vehicles with other people in earshot. When she doesn’t give him anything beyond an annoyed glare he says, “What? What happened?” Bucky looks to Peter then, accusatory, and says, “What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t-” Peter starts, body tensing and hands moving frantically with anxiety. “We were just talking about work. I didn’t do anything.”

“Stop it, Bucky. _Be nice_ ,” Shuri hisses at him, she’s almost going for a whisper but with all four of them in such close quarters there’s no way everyone doesn’t hear it. She wonders if maybe Bucky has no idea how clearly he and Steve were heard just now but the toothy grin he gives her next confirms that he does. “What the fuck, Bucky?” She admonishes, even though it’s futile and they both know it, “What did I say about you and hospital beds?”

“An ambulance isn’t a hospital,” Bucky offers, like that is somehow a valid, reasonable excuse or even remotely addresses the actual issue. 

Shuri grits her teeth, because it’s either that or smile, and Bucky is too big of an asshole to deserve the second reaction yet. “Bucky,” she says sternly. 

“Shuri,” Bucky says back, holding out the last syllable too long and high pitched like a baby whining for her forgiveness. She’d almost think he really was sorry if he wasn’t smiling at her like he is. He’s a man with no regrets about what just happened on the stretcher. “Come on,” he whimpers, exaggerated. He even throws in a wide rapid flutter of his lashes, “I almost _died_.”

“No,” She says rolling her eyes, “you didn’t.”

“I did,” he insists and pushes his metal shoulder into her line of sight, gesturing at the hole the bullet made in his coat and the scuff mark where it bounced off of him, “I got shot at and everything!”

“That barely even grazed you. You’re fine.” She does do a courtesy examination of the area though and confirms that yes, Bucky was not in any danger during that gun fight, and then shoves his arm out of her face. “You can’t use every time you’re shot at as an excuse for public fornication.”

“That only happened the _one_ other time,” He says, tone light and teasing. He’s having a lot of fun for someone claiming his life was in danger. Then again, Bucky has most certainly just had an orgasm so he can be much more playful after he’s been satiated. Plus, Shuri also can’t say she’d be surprised if Bucky’s ultimate “time of his life” is whenever that life is being threatened. 

The proprietor of such satisfaction appears over Bucky, tall and comfortably looming just behind where Bucky is slumped over the back of the low divide that stands between himself and the front seats. Shuri notes that Steve’s wearing the shirt Bucky had been wearing before. The one that had been way too big for him and that Shuri was pretty sure hadn’t been his own shirt either. Steve’s shirt is even bigger on Bucky and the mystery T-shirt Steve has on fits him a little tight. It seems like an ill advised switch all around, but Shuri has no interest in pressing them on it. She doesn’t really care. 

Steve hovers a bit behind Bucky, watching the exchange. He seems calm, somewhat satisfied himself, but at least has the decency to look a little ashamed at the idea that Shuri and Peter had heard them. It’s possible that Steve hadn’t thought of that when he cornered Bucky—Shuri knows how relentless and distracting Bucky can be for the men he pursues—and Shuri finds that a little more forgivable than Bucky’s attitude where he almost definitely knew but did not care.

“There’s a lot of adrenaline flying around,” Bucky says, defensive but still not ashamed—still too pleased for someone who is trying to prove to her that he’s so close to death that he needed to get one last canoodle in no matter where it was. “I can’t help the adrenaline-arousal response. That’s just biology, Shuri. You know: _Science_.”

“That’s not an official term,” Shuri tsks, “And just because norepinephrine causes enough vascular contraction to get your dick hard doesn’t mean you have to _use it_.” Shuri reaches across Bucky to point at an upcoming street. “Take a left here and then a quick right,” She says and Peter, silent and still a bit wide-eyed, obeys. 

The inclusion of Peter seems to remind Bucky that the guy is there and Bucky turns his body toward him a bit from where it’s still draped over the backs of the seats. “Parker, back me up, here. How horrible would it be to die without having one last orgasm?” Bucky says, bemoaning the idea, the very thought, and is visibly delighted when Parker’s face lights up like an EXIT sign. Bucky turns to Shuri again, her lips are twitching at the corners because she’s trying not to laugh, “Respect my last wishes.”

“You’re not dying,” She says but her voice pitches at the end, her amusement harder to hide the more Bucky chips away at her annoyance. Bucky stands up and leans on her seat.

“You don’t know that,” Bucky counters, “someone _is_ trying to kill me.” Bucky does get a smile then. Not that Shuri would ever find humor in his demise but she has a weakness for Bucky’s flare for the dramatic. If only the phrase were really hyperbole now. Shuri has to admit that there is something that is, on some level, oddly comforting that Bucky’s mind is still mostly focused on getting laid rather than on fighting for his life. Like there’s something still stable, constant, and infallible in the world after all. 

It’s hard to take anything as too seriously dire with a guy like Bucky around. Or even a guy like Steve, apparently, who takes that moment to join in the conversation by wrapping a large, strong, and possessive arm around Bucky, over his shoulder and across his front, pulling Bucky into the broad chest behind him. Steve buries his nose into Bucky’s hair at the back of his head, takes a moment to appreciate the smell, before he says, at a volume that is _not at all_ an intimate whisper, “I’ll protect you, Doll.”

“Five minutes, guys,” Shuri implores, “keep it in your pants for _five minutes_.”

-*-

Bucky hears Shuri’s plea but he doesn’t heed it. He feels like jelly. Like a marionette whose strings have been wound taut and then cut; a motionless and willing toy only kept from being a puddle on the floor by Steve’s hold. Shuri looks at both of them, playfully disgusted but the smile is still there. “I hate both of you.”

Bucky knows better than to believe her. And if Steve believes her, or if he cares, he doesn’t show it. Steve is busy biting the shell of Bucky’s ear—small nips that won’t leave any marks but still keep Bucky warm and placid against him.

“Is someone really trying to kill you?” Peter pipes up from the driver’s seat. Bucky had, again, forgotten he was there. The guy looks horrified, glancing between Bucky and the road like he needs to make sure someone doesn’t shoot him right then and there. It’s a wonder he didn’t pick up on this sooner what with a woman wrestling Steve on top of his ambulance.

“What did you think was happening?” Bucky asks.

“I thought she was a cop. I thought she was trying to subdue you.” Parker looks like he’s on the edge of a panic attack, this situation suddenly more dangerous than he realized.

“Huh,” Bucky offers, momentarily speechless, because if Parker had been compliantly driving a stolen vehicle around in a high speed chase thinking they were simply out running _the cops_ , the guy had a lot more guts, value, and dedication in trying to get into Shuri’s scrubs than Bucky had anticipated. 

“Why is someone trying to kill you?” Peter’s voice cracks a little half-way through the question. Even now he keeps looking over at Shuri, to check on her, as if she’s the one in direct line of fire and Peter has to keep _her_ safe.

Shuri just snorts. “Why _wouldn’t_ someone be trying to kill him,” She says. Bucky counts himself lucky that she’s only annoyed about the back seat action and not angry that he has her in a life-threatening race against the clock. But Shuri has never been bothered by high stress situations--surgeons never should be. She has a different fascination with danger. Where Bucky seeks it out for pleasure she seeks it out for comfort. She likes being calm and collected in places where others are clawing at the walls to get out.

“Aw come on, Shuri, don’t be like that.” Bucky nudges her with his elbow, keeps nudging until she’s leaning so far over she’s pressed against the window. There’s a few moments of silence as Shuri cranks her eyebrows up at him; Bucky notices that Peter relaxes a little in the quiet, like he’s relieved this conversation is over and Bucky feels that he _has_ to destroy that. The kid is just too wholesome and innocent.

“What if I took over driving for a bit and you can fuck the adorable virgin boy in front of us and call it even?”

Peter chokes on air. He coughs so hard he’s leaning over the steering wheel clutching it and Steve slaps him on the back a couple of times to help. Shuri finally pushes back against Bucky’s elbow, punctuating her resistance with a jab into Bucky’s side, a place she knows he’s not ticklish, exactly, but he is sensitive and doesn’t like to be touched there.

“That wouldn’t be even,” She explains, “because you’d _enjoy_ that.” She looks around on the ground for a moment, finds an open water bottle in the cup holder and passes it to Peter, who is still trying to recover but is at least breathing normally now. “ ***You’re a voyeuristic degenerate,*** ” she says in a dialect that Bucky can’t immediately name, despite that he fully understands it.

“ ***You love me,*** ” He says hoping that Peter feels a little left out; a little curious about what they’re saying as the only monolingual in the car.

Parker’s choking cough has finally quieted down and the blush is fading, although Bucky swears he can see the red in his face spark up a little every couple of beats, like Peter keeps remembering what Bucky suggested and getting riled up again. But the guy manages to keep the vehicle steady through the whole ordeal and Bucky has to respect that. 

The road stretches on and a few minutes tick by as they fly over the unpaved gravel before softly—so soft that maybe none of them would have heard him if they weren’t all crammed together in the front seat of the ambulance, individually silently pondering their plight—Peter says, “I’m not a virgin.”

Bucky laughs, “Yeah, _Okay_.” He ruffles Peter’s hair and the guy tries to move away from the motion but he only has so far to go in his seat. 

Bucky wants to push him on it more. There’s just something about Parker that’s too fun not to poke at and there are plenty of responses Bucky can think of to such an easy pitch, only he doesn’t get a chance before Shuri is grabbing at his shoulder and shaking his arm, pointing to something across a wide, grassy field. 

It’s a windmill, or had been once. The long spindled propellers of its arms chipped and crumbling with disuse. A relic of the wind power days. Bucky had only been a kid back then, at the very end of those days, but he still can recall the high white pitched noise of their whirring screams. The dulled grey paint job on the mill looks odd in the dark. It glows in their headlights; a slumbering ghost tall and frozen in the grass. 

“What is it?” Steve asks, and Bucky knows he means the mill’s significance and not the actual make and model of its structure. 

Bucky just smiles because it’s just like Erik to play these little games. Bucky points through the windshield as Shuri leans over to give Peter the altered trajectory of their direction, gesturing at the cross of the mill’s propellers, its mechanical limbs, a kindred spirit. “The arms,” Bucky says, flexing his own until the whir of the left one makes Steve’s eyes dilate, his curiosity sparked. “X marks the spot.”


	7. And the River did Run like Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So possible warning(?) is that there is some description of needles and blood drawing in the last part of this chapter. It's a simple consensual medical procedure, but I know some people have a thing with such things. So do what you will with that. :)
> 
> Thanks to all who are reading. <3

**And the River did Run like Blood**

When this is all over, Nat is going to take the longest, hottest, bath of her life and she’s going to fill the tub with a full bag of epsom salt. For now though she rolls off of the hood of the car, her boots crunching on the glass when she lands, and pulls her scarf down to let her face breathe without it. The shards from the shattered windshield are everywhere, mostly shed from her back from when she had pried herself off the hood. They sprinkle to the ground where they ping off the pavement like bullet shells. 

The remains of the cruiser are kind of a horror show, or at least the front of it is. The micro fiber plastic of the car’s casing had splintered where she fell and spindeling lines now fractured up and through what’s left of the windshield’s glass. It looks like a spider web, she notes, wryly. And she wonders what her sisters would say now if they saw that _The Widow_ had gotten caught in her own trap. 

At least she was alive and walking. The officer behind the wheel probably could have kept driving with her on the windshield. He could have scrapped her off of it too in favor of his pursuit but instead he swerved out of traffic into an abandoned lot, maybe so he could get out and check if she was all right. But with Nat’s body blocking the windshield, he couldn’t see and instead ended up crashing his cruiser into an HID lamp post which, thankfully, fell forward and not backwards. There were going to be more cops to assess the situation soon and she needed to get out to avoid any more hiccups. 

The only problem is that the officer, a lead ranked detective according to the violet stripes on his sleeve, was still in his cruiser, pinned by his right shoulder between his seat and the steering wheel, and she can’t leave him like that after he crashed to save her. She crouches down and peers at him through the window. He’s conscious, which is good, and doesn’t appear to have a head injury, which is better. 

“Name and Network ID?” Natasha asks, automatically, like she’s back on beat cop duty and has just pulled the guy over for speeding. There’s no reason the detective needs to answer her. As far as he’s concerned, she’s just another unruly civilian out causing a civil disturbance. She was the one that had been surfing a moving vehicle on the highway going 40 over the limit. He might even try to arrest her. That’d be fun to see. 

To her surprise, the detective answers her, listing off his numbers in a voice a little too friendly for the situation, but it still sounds genuine, like he might just be that nice of a guy. 

“Sam Wilson. Lead Detective. District: _Central_. Network ID: _Falcon—EXO7—117_.”

“Well that was easy.” It was, too. Maybe a little too easy. Not that Natasha didn’t appreciate _Detective Wilson_ streamlining her work. 

Wilson just looks at her from where he’s still pinned behind the wheel, corners of his mouth tipping upwards and somehow finding humor in the whole situation, “You seem like a girl who might appreciate easy.”

“That an insult?” Natasha asks, brows raised high. 

“Compliment,” Wilson counters, once again quick and smooth—as easy as a breeze. 

If it is a compliment, Natasha accepts it. Although she also amends, “That depends on the situation. And the man,” she tacks on, as an afterthought. She’s been in the basement awhile. It feels good to flirt. 

Wilson’s expression opens even wider, fully receptive to the flirtation. Natasha can work with that. “You okay?” She asks a beat after. He laughs and she doesn’t blame him: It’s a hilariously stupid question. 

“Peachy,” he says. He’s cute, soft eyes and a gap-toothed smile. She leans into the window and does a quick check of the rest of him—mostly to make sure there’s no larger injury she could make worse by trying to move him. “Can you help me out?” 

“Of course,” she says, finding nothing in her search of him that is in need of an ambulance. “Your arm is pinned though. I don’t have anything to wedge you out.” He nods in agreement, eyes drifting to where he’s pinned. Pinned but not punctured. Natasha can work with that. “If we dislocate your shoulder you can maybe slip out.” 

Natasha expects some push back on that one. It’s a strategy that has helped her out numerous times, but not everyone is so quickly keen on electively popping a bone out of its socket as a first response. And yet, Wilson doesn’t even flinch at her request, keeps nodding and only pauses to lick his lips. She reaches in a little further. “Do you need me to-” She starts but he shakes his head and pushes her back. 

“No, I got it,” He assures her and, still without flinching, pops his arm out of his socket with a quick wet echo of a sound; it hangs afterwards loosely from his body but he doesn’t seem to notice. She opens the door, puts his other arm over her shoulders, and helps pull him out gently. 

“Not your first time,” she observes, eyes fixed on his other shoulder, the loose limb. 

He laughs again, this one breathier and a little quieter like they aren’t the only two people for a mile, “You impressed?” 

“More than that,” she replies, voice matching his in tone and heat. She leans him up against the cruiser, her eyes flickering down at his gun and his badge on his hilt. This already complicated mess has just become worse. 

“Can you pop it back in for me?” Natasha nods. She has a feeling that Wilson could do it himself but it is more practical this way. A second outside person generally has the better angle. 

That’s only if the other person knows what they are doing, however. Or if that other person isn’t trying to maim the injured one further. When Wilson turns his weak side to her, Natasha could rotate his shoulder until the muscles tore clear off if she wanted to. And she could do it quickly enough that he wouldn’t be able to stop her. It’s a little reckless of the detective to do it anyway, turning his back to a stranger. But it does instantly warm Nat a bit that Wilson obviously trusts her enough to help him and to do it right. So she puts one hand on his chest to steady him and the other on his shoulder, feeling out the limb, finding the place where it’s dislodged and where it needs to be moved to slide home. 

“I can do it if you’re squeamish,” he says and it’s her turn to laugh. She gives him a comforting pat on his chest and shakes her head. 

“Don’t worry baby, I got you,” she promises and then, with a quick and precise jerk, rights the limb back into place. He doesn’t scream, the only sign he shows that he felt it at all is a soft moan and a hard bite on his bottom lip. 

Nat wonders what it would take to make him scream a little—or cry. She knows now is not the time to speculate on that, and Wilson—a cop—is not the person to try it with, given her current assignment. But then again, he’s so very precious and pretty. Natasha might be unpredictable, a great enigma in her line of work, but her taste in men was a pretty consistent thing. Danger was a staple in her life, always had been. The RU-19 was a district of survivors, and Natasha had not only survived her upbringing but thrived in it. At this point, anything less than living on that razor edge of The Job was simply dull and she needed a man who could keep up—and then maybe press that thrill further. 

In hiding, during her particularly high points of boredom and restlessness, she had even idly considered looking up Barnes when all of this was over, curious to see how deep his legendary need for danger really ran and to see if she could maybe match and exceed it. But then she had observed Barnes in action. Even from casual observation it was obvious that Barnes needed adrenaline like air. But Barnes’s pursuits of it were reckless. He didn’t seek out independent dangers so much as invented them. He was too unpredictable, a wild lit match that surely had to burn out. But Wilson, on the other hand, Nat immediately understood was a different kind of danger-seeker. He was controlled and collected in the face of it. His was a risk that came hand and hand with true law. Always in pursuit of risk out of duty and a resigned knowledge that that was simply how The City worked. Wilson was a cog in the thick of destruction just trying to slow it down. He had focus and purpose and that was a lot more appealing. As was the fact that Wilson, officer of the law as he was, was not above taking orders under the right reasons—a thing they had in common. So now, with Wilson moaning when he should be screaming, smelling like stale coffee and nutmeg, she thinks he’s more than a cut above any other man she could choose. 

“You liked that a little?” She asks, less a question and more a personal request for confirmation. He gives it, looking down at her with his big brown eyes and winking. 

“Yeah?” He grins at her. “So did you.” 

She hums in agreement, and she takes her hand and runs it up and down his arm under the guise of making sure everything is where it’s supposed to be. She’s happy just to touch him. This is really too complicated now. She needs to get after Barnes but there’s no way she can go anywhere without Wilson on her too. At the very least he’s going to start asking all the basic cop questions soon—maybe even some non-basic ones about why she was fighting some bearded goliath on top of a moving emergency vehicle. Things are going to go south for her once the authorities arrive to investigate the crash and she needs to be far from the scene when they do. She’s in too deep to break her cover _now_. 

“I did,” she confirms, dropping her hand from him. Her eyes flash down to the taser on his belt, just for a second, her stomach sinking with the thought of having to knock him out and leave him. If he sees her glance he doesn’t flinch. And if he knows what’s coming, he doesn’t show it. Or at least, he doesn’t seem to be anticipating it with any kind of disappointment. His eyes are on her eyes. She has his complete focus for the moment but this second won’t last and she needs to make the move now. 

“Are you okay?” He looks her over—respectful and with the purpose of assessing any injury and that’s just _so_ cute. 

“I’m sore, but it’s nothing I haven’t recovered from before.” She shoves both of her hands in her pockets and takes a full, safe, step away from Officer Wilson, a precaution to keep her body from betraying him by instinct. She’s going soft, or she already has been soft for ages, stuck in an underground safe house with only nine hundred square feet to keep her company. It feels like holding her breath underwater and discovering that she can’t keep it for as long as she used to. 

“You get up to this kind of thing a lot?” He asks her, and there it is, the precursor before he gets into the cop questions. There’s no time for it. His partner, whoever they are, will be around soon following the distress signal of his crashed cruiser and two cops is always worse than less. Coming from her, that was a weird thought, probably, given the circumstances. Natasha isn’t exactly sure at which point she had stopped considering herself one of them. Maybe the answer to that was _always_. She had never really been one for teams. Still though, technically speaking, two cops were already here. 

And maybe her tendency to insist on being alone was half the problem. Undercover operations were one thing. Natasha had never regretted the years of her life that she had spent living other lives. But playing dead was another. She couldn’t stay in the safe house for much longer without going from soft to mad. And she certainly wasn’t getting anything accomplished spending her days cooking mediocre borscht behind bland basement walls. Besides, Wilson already seemed to know Barnes. And if Wilson was working Barnes, then there was a good chance that they had some common professional interests. 

“I think you and I should team up,” She suggests, and she pulls her identification from her pocket. It’s a risky move. Everyone knew that Peirce had eyes everywhere and that included inside some of the skulls on the force. Sam could be in Peirce’s pocket. Or he could just turn out to be yet another compromised officer who saw an opportunity to get a leg up and takes it the moment he knows the trade value of the thing in front of him. Something tells Nat that she can trust Wilson though. She doesn’t know why because she doesn’t know him. But her gut says that Sam Wilson is as uncompromised as they come. So she takes a breath and shows him the badge. 

Wilson stares for a moment at the worn brown leather of her wallet, shifting his shoulders closer to get a better look at the brass chip, specifically designed to be easily concealed in an emergency. At a certain level of law enforcement, nothing is allowed to be too technological. Beat cops and detectives can possibly have their identification tech hacked and there are spyware protection systems in place for them. But deep cover Feds who have full jurisdiction across districts like herself have more at risk, are undercover nearly all the time and handle bigger fish. There needs to be no risk of hacking. Hence the analog. 

Wilson touches the badge, brings it a little closer to his eyes to really analyze it—possibly checking for the signs of authenticity—but he doesn’t pull it away from her. His eyes land on her clearance level, etched as it is in a raised brail in the corner, and his eyes widen before they look back at her with an elevated level of respect. 

“You’re the undercover agent we had,” he concludes. She nods and pockets the badge again as Wilson says, “we thought you were dead.” 

Nat had almost left her badge at the safe house. She had been undercover for so long she almost couldn’t find it, and having it on her person again felt unfamiliar and exposing. But if it came down to trying to prove to Dr. Adanna, or Barnes, or Barnes’s beefcake hound of love that she was on their side, her badge would be the only thing she had. “You were supposed to,” she replies. “Everyone was supposed to. Peirce almost found me out while he was looking for another undercover operative.” 

“Another Fed?” Sam asks and she shakes her head. 

“Not exactly.” Natasha still thinks that Nakia would be a great asset to the force, but she understands her reservations to work for the system. She knows Nakia’s aspirations and opinions on building a better world, even if they don’t agree on them. It was always the one sticking point between the two of them. Nat had learned early that regimes tended to rise and fall, but corruption was forever. The best one could hope for was to do what they could to stop the bleeding. But Nakia insisted that The City could still one day be better. That you just needed to know where to cut. Which parts to excise. The cancerous organs that she truly believed The City would one day learn to live without. 

“She has a different loyalty,” Nat tries to explain, cryptic in her reservations to give any more of Nakia up. “But we have the same goal. She was closer to it so we made a plan: she kills me and turns me into Peirce as a Fed, cementing his trust in her.” 

“Risky plan,” Sam stands tall and moves one step closer to Natasha and smiles when she doesn’t take another step back. 

“It’s worked. So far. But there’s been a few problems.” 

“Let me guess,” Wilson sighs, voice as tired as Nat’s bones feel, “Barnes is a problem?” Nat can tell from the way Wilson says it that this isn’t his first or even his twelfth go around with Barnes. That Wilson already knows that _problem_ and _James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes_ are often synonymous. Surprisingly, however, Wilson doesn’t sound all that angry when he says it. He sounds, not _fond_ , exactly, but something. Like he maybe begrudgingly respects Barnes a little bit and is also amused by him. 

“Barnes is an obstacle rippling out and creating others. Such as you, for instance.” She tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear, listening closely for the sounds of sirens to announce the arrival of Wilson’s partner and with them even more obstacles. 

Wilson nods. “I don’t like to be an inconvenience. But I’ve got a job to do here as well as you.” 

“Which is why,” she suggests, sliding the badge back into her pocket, the weight and shape of it slowly feeling familiar again, an anchor to remind her she isn’t really a dead woman. Looking at Sam certainly makes her feel more alive than she has in months. “I think we should work together. Collaboration.” 

He doesn’t hide that he’s thinking about it, considering the possible options and pitfalls. She could still knock him out and leave him here but maybe he doesn’t know that. Or maybe he knows she doesn’t really want to. That this alternative is risky for her but it sits lighter on her conscience. Either way, he understands the weight of it for both of them and shows her that he agrees to the partnership anyway by turning back to his cruiser and flipping off the distress signal. 

While he turns on the radio to report in that he’s safe to his partner (“Danvers” Nat hears him say), she takes out her burner and writes a coded report to Nakia to ask her to run another trace on Barnes’s tracker. It’s not like Natasha to lose a tail so quickly. All that subterranean dwelling has left her senses too damp. Natasha isn’t too worried about it though. She’d found him easily the first time and she’ll do it again. As long as Barnes still has his arm, it’s just a matter of catching up. 

__*__*__

Erik’s operation is underground—literally. It used to be a Roxxon testing site, a place where they ran every trail from rat to human of their drugs and early prototypes of their cybernetic body parts. They had been pushed out by Howard Stark when he perfected and mass released his parts, and at half the projected cost Roxxon had planned to use. All that work, that planning, and Stark industries shut them out in three weeks. Roxxon merged with Rand Enterprises to salvage what they could, going exclusively into pharmaceuticals and eventually eclipsing Rand itself. 

But that had happened very quickly, the shutdown, the merger, the move, and everyone at the trail lab had to shove what they could into a box and move it to the Western parts of the city. They put a for sale sign up on the site and planned to fill it in but never got around to it. It was a forgotten place, no use left in it until Erik bought it. 

Erik has a thing about potential and repurposing. Being able to build a kingdom of his own off of the ruins of lesser men. Roxxon had made a bit of a fuss on it in the beginning, but Erik makes himself a difficult man to fight with and they gave up quickly enough. They let him have reign of their junkyard, their left-to-rot lab and all the failure it represented to them, and from the depths of its carcass, he built an operation all his own. With T’Challa’s help, of course, because the two cousins were always close, even as boys, but there was always a fight to be had between them. Erik would want to do things his way, and T’Challa would refuse him. Sometimes Erik listened—resigned himself to grumbling and stewing in his disappointment. But most times Erik would do what he wanted anyway, bragging when his plan worked, and pretending like it wasn’t a big deal if it failed. 

Shuri isn’t sure what the most recent disagreement is about. She’s sure that it has followed the same pattern as all the others before it, but the details have been kept from her. The fight has lasted much longer than before, and to make it stranger, T’Challa told her she was not to speak to their cousin until Erik could “be reasonable.'' Only Shuri didn’t take orders from T’Challa, or anyone else, especially over something as mundane as who she could and couldn’t talk to, so T’Challa’s _request_ had been just as, if not more so, unreasonable. 

Besides, Shuri didn’t play games with children and she needed a lab. And Erik had one of the best lab’s in The City, even if he insisted on being woefully dramatic about its ambience. For example, step one on the grand drama tour was the security. The lab was _hidden_ , buried underground to better switch on and off the grid when it wanted to, using the damp soiled earth as a natural barrier to gamma rays and satellites. 

Bucky’s just as dramatic observation, that “X marked the spot,” was accurate even if eye-rolling. Shuri was pretty sure that the windmill hadn’t even been there when Roxxon had built the place up, which meant that Erik had to have at some point imported it—dragged the husk of the old relic all the way out to the Dark Lands just to erect it over the concealed entrance for show. 

Knowing it was worth trying to search for the doorway in the archaic machine was step one, which was usually enough to keep any stray wanderers at bay. Shuri’s been to Erik’s lab plenty of times before, however, so this isn’t the principle issue. But she also knows that once they do locate the door, to get inside any further, they’ll need to be buzzed into an elevator from someone on the lowest level. There’s a camera and buzzer hooked up to the elevator entrance. It has just enough analog pieces to make it hard, if not impossible, to hack. Not that anyone would bother trying to spy in on Erik and see what he’s up to. Roxxon had long since ceased caring about their old dump and with Erik no longer at T’Challa’s side, any other enemies, such as Peirce and HYDRA, don’t have any reason to care about him. There had been something, Shuri recalls vaguely, just before the argument where HYDRA had come after Erik, or tried to, but they had backed off—possibly to shift all of their focus to Stark’s Tower. 

It’s started raining again, harder than before, and it turns the earth around them slick and muddy by the time they pull up the winding unmarked path to the lab. It’s all a rather fitting and ominous omen, as inconveniently treacherous of a terrain as most of the places Bucky ends up dragging Shuri into. The thick mud makes the rest of the road impassable on heavy wheels and Peter parks the ambulance as close as he can to the towering structure. The wet earth shines in the headlights, highlighting a glimmer of the distance still to go before they reach the door. From his perch behind her, Bucky leans further over the seat to peer through the window, eyeing the weather suspiciously, like he’s somehow personally betrayed by the downpour even though the City has always been old bitter friends with the storm. There’s really no way to avoid it; they are about to get _wet_. 

Shuri is about to get out anyway and just rush through the rain, when Parker stops her with a quick but emphatic, “wait!”. He tells her again to wait just a moment and then hops out into the weather himself. Bucky mutters something in R-12 and the tone is amused and endearing, if not a little mocking. Shuri figures out why a moment later when her door opens and there’s Peter with his coat held high above his head, spreading it out wide enough to create a sort of canopy from the rain. He says to Shuri, “I don’t have an umbrella, sorry,” and then holds the coat over her while she steps out. Peter himself gets soaked but if he notices or cares he doesn’t show it, his only goal is keeping Shuri dry and happy as they rush to the elevator together. 

It’s a sweet gesture. Certainly not one she’s used to. Shuri had spent her entire life in a world full of men. With a few exceptions, given T’Challa’s charisma, Shuri had never put much effort into making many friends all her own; T’s friends were her friends. And T’s friends knew that anything they were about to get muddy doing, be it collecting mutated specimens from the spill-off creek in the AF-1 when they were kids, or trecking out to hike over the ridges of the Sw-7 mountains for sport, then she was too. 

Still, there’s something kind of nice about how Peter does it. 

Shuri doesn’t actually _miss_ the exaggerated leering wink Bucky throws after her as Peter bends awkwardly to keep her dry, nor his follow-up kissing motions, but she still pretends that she does. True, she doesn’t need protection from the rain. She’s not a wilting damsel. But Peter is being a gentleman. And sweet. Two things that she would happily point out to Bucky are two things that he doesn’t even know how to be, and she would yell that back Bucky’s way in a hot second if she didn’t think doing so would just embarrass Peter further. So she does the arguably best course of action to follow most of the time when it comes to Bucky’s antics and ignores him. She already has one drama queen lingering in an underground fortress bunker guarded by an archaic windmill to deal with and that’s already enough of a distracting hurdle when a medical breakthrough mystery was on the line. 

She does throw a finger up behind Peter’s back though, just in case it isn’t too dark for Bucky to be able to see it. 

__*__*__

Bucky rolls his eyes, watching Shuri dash awkwardly to the door as she tries to stay crouched under Parker’s jacket. It was really probably a fortunate thing that two such short people had found each other. He turns back to Steve with his eyebrows raised, “I’m guessing he’s not going to do that for us.” 

“Don’t pout,” Steve says, running his finger along Bucky’s bottom lip, his eyes dark and heavy like he wants Bucky to do the opposite of what Steve’s asking. He must like the shape of Bucky’s mouth no matter the expression. Bucky plans to use that to his own advantage as much as possible. “Or I’ll give you something to whine about.” 

Like that was a reason to get Bucky to stop. Like it wasn’t the single best encouragement to keep Bucky going. Bucky licked at his lips, catching the tip of Steve’s fingers on the edge of his tongue, trying to coax them further into his mouth. There’s just something about the very taste of Steve that Bucky wants to open up and swallow whole. 

Bucky knows that Steve won’t take the bait because he likes to tease, but he still isn’t entirely prepared for the way Steve pulls his fingers back to skim over the bottom swell of Bucky’s lip, right before he digs the tips deep into the hook of his jaw, immobilizing Bucky’s face from turning, seeking, or following. 

Bucky melts under the strong pressure of those fingers. Steve so clearly loves to rile Bucky up, give him orders, and then play with him like a cat with a mouse. Bucky’s mind drifts to Steve’s home-dungeon, or the image of it he’s slowly been building in his mind since Steve mentioned tying him down and caging him in. There’s a lot of promising possibility in that idea, and Bucky’s mind has been running overtime with all of them. Granted, most of the things Bucky wants Steve to do to him will probably never happen. Bucky has long-since resolved himself with the knowledge that he always wants more—can always give and _take_ more than other people actually want to give him. 

Because Bucky wants things. Dark things. Things that pulse and swirl inside him until it feels like need. Lovers didn’t _hit_. Not the way Bucky liked it. They didn’t order and control. Not the kind of orders Bucky wanted, or the kind of control Bucky wanted to yield to. Bucky had fucked plenty of men who played at power—dangerous and violent men with their claws in every crevice of the City that mattered. But none of them actually had any. Not over him anyway. And yet Steve, a stranger, wholesome face and central-accented, bouncing in some nowhere club with no known ties to the the dangerous cindicates of the City streets, hummed with more vibrancy than Bucky had ever tasted. 

So Bucky at least lets himself fantasize about the things that Steve could do to him, if Steve proved even partially capable of delivering on all his pretty words. Bucky imagines himself strung up, arms high above his head, feet just barely scraping the ground, while Steve circles him with burning rods of steel, pressing the flame of the metal into his skin—a mark, a _brand_ seared into his flesh. How Steve would observe him take it, clinical and curious, like all he wanted was just to watch Bucky hiss and wrythe, and squirm. How they both would know better, with Steve’s cock thick and hot inside him, that his disinterest was a lie. 

Bucky shivers under those fingers, just to feel them flex. “I don’t think that’s as discouraging as you think,” Bucky says. 

“If you want, I can carry you?” Steve offers, backing Bucky up against the back doors of the ambulance. Bucky takes one step back from Steve for every advance Steve makes, not because he wants to get away but because he loves to be cornered and at the mercy of Steve’s unyielding body. Bucky remembers all too well how Steve lifted him in Thirteen, held him up and against the magnetic wall like Bucky weighed nothing. How Bucky had become a doll, easily lifted and maneuvered—sleepy-eyed and grateful for it because Steve had wanted to play with him. 

“Not just now,” Bucky says and it isn’t a lie, exactly. Bucky _wants_ Steve to man handle him but there’s no time for that action to go where Bucky wants it to. If Steve lifted him now, made him feel loose and weightless like Steve so easily does, Shuri and her loverboy EMT would be waiting for them too long. And Bucky knows from a multitude of personal experiences that Shuri will put up with a lot for him and his _insatiability_ , but she won’t stand outside in the rain and wait for him to get laid. And then there was the assassin, still out there in the dark, and Detective Wilson acting as Bucky’s own personal clinging shadow like he didn’t have whole boxes of other case files to work on, and then Becca, only safe for so much longer in Peirce’s prison of a tower with Jack looking on. 

The handle to the back door digs into Bucky’s lower back and Bucky manages to summon the resolve to find it blindly with his fingers and push it open. Steve’s weight stays warm around him and Bucky swears he can see the cooling air in the back of the ambulance begin to fog where the temperature of Steve’s body meets the splash off from the rain. 

Bucky opens up the back doors wider and jumps out. He stays in the rain for only a second, letting the water cool his skin and making sure Steve will hop out to follow him. Steve moves to do so, but then pauses at the edge of the drop off. He eyes Bucky for a moment from where he stands. Steve’s eyes are hard to see at the new distance in the dark, but Bucky thinks that Steve must like him wet. Bucky can’t see Steve’s eyes, but he can see his breath, condensing into fog when he exhales sharply. 

And they don’t have time, but Bucky tilts his head back a bit anyway, letting the rain water hit his face, the droplets pelting hard and thick like bullets. Bucky is pretty sure if he were to open his mouth up wide he might choke on it. And he swallows that thought down with the rain, eyes closing for just a moment before he feels Steve suddenly there again beside him, tugging at his waist. 

Bucky doesn’t even have to open his eyes as he turns his body into Steve’s, taking the urgent kiss that Steve offers with his lids still closed. Steve kisses like he moves: calm, confident, and devastating. Bucky buckles to it, whining too easily into Steve’s mouth as his lips grow wet with the chill of the weather. Steve’s lips are cold, but the plunder of his tongue is warm, and Bucky is just starting to lose all memory of why they are even at this goddamn laboratory in the middle of the goddamn wastelands when Steve breaks apart from him, a low murmur of laughter in his throat that sounds like the promise of another dangerous storm. Bucky’s airway feels constricted, but there’s nothing at his throat. He stands there for a moment, stupefied, until Steve tugs at his wrist, pulling Bucky forward on the path until they are both rushing through the rain. 

They meet up at the front door, all of them shoved under the little awning that isn’t big enough to keep all of them dry. Shuri shoots him an exasperated look that suggests she knows it doesn’t take a person that long to dash a few yards, but she also knows it takes Bucky longer than it had been to actually get off, so she doesn’t comment. Parker doesn’t comment either, or seem to even notice—too busy keeping his coat up and over Shuri’s head to shield her like keeping her dry and warm is the single most important mission of his night. 

Bucky would be more actively annoyed by Parker’s hovering chivalry if Steve’s frame wasn’t pressed and curved so tightly against his back, Steve’s huge lumberjack form providing its own unique barrier for Bucky from the rain. Besides, it’s good that Shuri has the guy here. Shuri can take care of herself but usually Bucky still keeps an eye out for her anyway. With Shuri it’s less a matter of _can_ and more a matter of _priorities_. And if there’s a scientific mystery to be solved, a lot of what most people consider basic needs become far-off factors for a person like Shuri. Food, water... a constant vigilance for assassination attempts, they all take the backburner. So Bucky tries, usually, to be those eyes for her. To bring her food. To remind her to rehydrate. Especially when the project she’s working on is something he dragged her into in the first place. Problem is, those same basic needs just as easily become faded in his own focus the second sex is on the table. And with the way Steve’s fingers feel, rubbing at the knots in his lower back—the way those hands travel even lower, thumbs subconsciously sweeping below his belt line—sex is _definitely_ on the table. Or at least it could be, if Erik would open the goddamn door and let Bucky use his kitchen. 

Shuri presses the buzzer and Bucky doesn’t notice the camera until he hears it whirr to life and scan all four of them. Erik’s voice comes out of the speaker under the buzzer, the box moving a little like it can’t contain Erik without trembling. 

“I know that is not my little cousin, standing in the rain, ringing my doorbell at two in the morning, cuddled up with two white boys and a cop.” 

At the reverberating sound of the voice, the warm firm pressure of Steve’s hands disappear as he bares his palms to the camera’s eye. “I’m not a cop,” Steve says, urgently, as if that was Erik’s chief concern. Like somehow Steve _not_ being affiliated with the TCPD made their unannounced presence less threatening. Bucky’s never been a fan of law enforcement himself, but he has his reasons; he wonders what reasons a tall homegrown City slice like Steve would have. 

“Let us in,” Shuri says, her body moving a little bit away from Peter as she strains to look up at the security camera like she’s looking Erik in the eye. “I’ll explain everything.” 

There’s a pause while Erik sighs, tired and maybe even somewhat torn about letting them in or turning them out. “T’Challa was clear,” Erik says, “He doesn’t want you hanging around with me.” 

“Yeah, which is incredibly stupid, so I don’t really care about that. He doesn’t have to know, though, if that’s a concern for you,” Shuri adds, quickly, “I just need a couple of hours in your lab.” Bucky glances at Parker and wonders how long his arms can stay up like that. He doesn’t even look uncomfortable. 

“And here I thought this was a social call,” Erik sounds sarcastic but with just enough disappointment under his voice to hint it’s true. “Your brother has all that. Whatever you need you don’t need to be here for it.” 

“If that were true do you think I would be here?” Erik doesn’t respond to that. She’s earnest and he, possibly, doesn’t know how to deal with that. Shuri so rarely begs anyone for anything and Bucky knows that whenever Erik and T’Challa do have a fight this big, one where she’s asked to stay out of it, she gives them both their space until they mend the bridge themselves. But here she is shivering in the rain, at an ungodly hour of the morning, with the pack of soaking wet miscreants huddled behind her, begging to ignore what T’Challa asked of her. 

“This is really important, please?” She’s getting through to him, Bucky can tell, because it’s Shuri and he hasn’t met a single living soul that can ultimately refuse Shuri when she’s being imploringly logical. She just needs to push a little more. Right on cue, Shuri shivers in the cold and she pulls her doctor’s coat around herself tighter. 

Sure enough, Erik’s voice cracks into something a little softer, the static from the old comm fizzling in the wind. “Who are they?” Erik asks, shifting the topic to try and shake off the guilt Shuri is making him face. 

“I’m Peter Parker,” Peter says, the only one in their group not aware that it wasn’t a real question—not one that needed to be answered with a name anyway. The guy is definitely going to get himself killed one day if he keeps offering up his name like it’s nothing. “I drove us here,” He adds, just in case his full name wasn’t satisfactory enough. 

“I can’t explain if I get pneumonia,” Shuri snaps at the speaker, “let me in.” 

“Fine. _You_ can come in,” Erik allows, “but those guys have to stay out there. I can’t let any old riff raff down here.” 

“Am I riff raff?” Peter asks, but he poses the question at Bucky who rolls his eyes. A naive reliability or not, the guy was definitely fun to poke at. 

“Too soon to tell, but I definitely am,” Bucky replies. Shuri shushes the both of them and points an accusing finger at the security camera. 

“We _all_ need to come in or I wouldn’t have brought them. No one is trying to invade your stupid lab.” 

“Just you,” Bucky can hear the smile in Erik’s disembodied voice. So can Shuri, but where Bucky finds it funny she just gets more annoyed as Erik continues speaking, “Who may I remind you is _expressly forbidden_ from even speaking to me. So you tell your brother that I’m-”

“I am not your go-between,” Shuri snaps, “I swear, Erik you are the _most_ dramatic person--” She pauses, looking back at Bucky, eyeing him up and reconsidering, before turning back to the camera and continuing, “you are being so dramatic right now.” 

It’s an entirely fair, if not shaded, observation, but Bucky still takes the short pause in conversation to mutter a small “ouch” in Shuri’s direction, his hand coming up to clutch at his heart. The dying, choking sound he throws in as a bonus really only helps prove her point and she waves him off. 

If anything is dramatic, it’s the weather. The wind blows cold out in the off-grid spaces. There are less buildings here, more space for the elements to blow wild and free. Bucky’s teeth start chattering and he clenches his jaw to keep it from being distracting. He’s barely on his second shiver before Steve’s hands find him again, rubbing up Bucky’s arms in a quick efficient spark of friction, keeping him warm. 

“I’m not dramatic,” Erik mutters into the speaker before the large doors open beneath the awning. Shuri dives inside. Peter, right behind her, finally lowers his coat once his lady love is secure, leaving Bucky and Steve to pile inside after. “Your brother is the one who’s dramatic. Not me.” 

The elevator closes and starts to lower them down. Peter strips off his wet coat. For a moment, it looks like he’s considering wringing it out in the elevator, and then thinks better of it, folding it over his arm instead. Bucky watches him shift his weight from one foot to the other, his body full of nervous energy. It makes sense. Until now, Parker had something to do, a task to keep him focused and moving, but now that they have to spend a few minutes quiet inside of an elevator, doing _nothing_ , his body was obviously trying to fight it. 

Bucky would normally be the same way, unable to sit still, especially with the stakes as high as they are and climbing every hour that passes. He can only assume that his new-found resolve to _stay still_ is on account of Steve. Granted, Steve was presently pressed into the corner of the elevator and _not_ touching Bucky, but Steve’s eyes are focused so hard on his boy that Bucky can feel it. Bucky feels weighed down by it, like an anchor, steady and strong, is keeping him still and in line. He’s going to behave himself. If only because Bucky is pretty sure that will earn him Steve’s approval—that Steve will be proud of him for staying so calm and still under pressure. 

“It’s best if you let me do all the talking,” Shuri tells them and that creates a different kind of relief in Bucky (one he thinks Peter feels too judging by the way his hand stops twitching). They are all currently enclosed in a little metal box, descending at a vibrating pace who knew how far below the ground. And yet, the relief he feels is a simple equation that Bucky solved long ago. Bucky likes it when people he trusts take control. He trusts Shuri and this is Shuri’s world; she has everything under control. Bucky doesn’t need to interfere—possibly _can’t_ do so without messing things up for her and there’s an odd sort of comfort in that. 

He’s never met Erik in person but he knows _about_ him. He knows about the constant push and pull of power between him and T’Challa, knows that Shuri feels caught in the middle all the time, knows that Erik lost his father around the same age Bucky did, and that the three of them are as close as family can be. Bucky knows Erik through Shuri’s eyes, but that’s not the same as knowing someone. Feeling out how they tick. How to talk to them to get what you want from them. But Shuri knows Erik, and Steve is here to keep him from interfering. He just needs to stick close to Steve and maybe, Bucky thinks, glancing at Peter who is staring at Shuri like a love sick puppy, keep an eye on Parker. Bucky hasn’t fully worked Parker out either yet—can’t believe that someone would really be that genuinely eager and sweet, freely offering his eager smiles to the group that had abducted him into a high speed chase at gunpoint. He’s the truest wild card in all of this as far as Bucky is concerned. 

“Peeps!” Peter says, loudly and very suddenly, proving himself to be just as unpredictable as Bucky had suspected. When they all give him a quizzical look he shrugs one shoulder and rubs the back of his neck, “I forgot to bring the snacks. From the car.” 

Shuri laughs, a little too hard, Bucky thinks, but it is past two a.m. and it’s been a long night, maybe anything would make her laugh now. She’s still laughing when the elevator doors pull open and only barely simmers down into a light giggle by the time she steps off. They follow her like one long line of ants, Peter behind her, then Bucky behind him, and Steve at the end, his presence still powerful, still grounding, and Bucky suddenly realizes that the rain has made Steve’s natural scent a little stronger. 

He feels a little dizzy with it. 

Erik is waiting for them on the other side of the doors. Erik is more predictable in his actions than Peter that way. He has a clear rational motive for not wanting them to stray too far into his sanctuary without the full rundown. Bucky takes Erik in for the first time in person, trying to gauge if he would have been able to identify Erik from Shuri’s stories if he were to have bumped into him casually on the street. According to Shuri, Erik’s flair for the dramatic extends to his wardrobe. And yet, Erik’s streetwear, even in his own home, registers as pretty standard for this region of the City. All mutated colors in fashionably fitted, and vaguely military, cuts. It’s what’s happening above his shirt collar that’s the most eye catching. 

Erik is _very_ attractive. Which isn’t news, exactly, seeing as Shuri’s entire family looks like they walked off of a runway and never looked back. But Bucky has never _not_ stopped to appreciate a beautiful man, so he still can’t help but notice anyway on principle. Besides, there’s something about Erik that reminds him a little bit of Steve—something in the way Erik stands with an unwavering conviction in his shoulders and his eyes. Barely five minutes in his presence and Bucky gets the sense that Erik is the kind of man that would set fire to the world to uphold those convictions and would throw himself right into the front lines of the flames as it burned. Iron conviction isn’t easy to comeby in a City so bent. Bucky respects that. He respects him. However the night turns out. 

Erik also looks, despite what his tone over the speaker presented, very calm if not happy to see Shuri. He definitely, however, doesn’t look happy to see the three of them, but then again, Erik’s lab’s location and security is the definition of paranoid and reclusive, and Bucky assumes that Erik likely has his reasons for both of those things, even if Bucky himself had never been able to divine what they were. 

Shuri walks right up to Erik, Peter almost following her before Bucky catches him by the wet coat draped over his arm and pulls him back. Bucky mutters, “family stuff,” at Peter as an explanation and the guy accepts it, nodding and pulling back to stand a little behind Bucky and creating an unwelcome barrier between him and Steve. 

The awkward tension in the air doesn’t last long. Shuri and Erik stare at each other for less than half a minute before Erik breaks into a grin and wraps one arm around her, pulling her into a hug. “ ***It’s good to see you** *,” he says, so softly that it can’t be meant for any of the rest of them to hear. Bucky feels wrong understanding it, like a sneaky kind of eavesdropping, so he takes a few steps back, nudging Parker out of the way until Bucky’s able to press against Steve again, breathing in his scent as an easy distraction. 

Shuri wraps her arms around Erik’s chest and hugs him back—she looks so small and delicate in his arms. Bucky misses the majority of Shuri’s answering babel, subtly pressing back harder against Steve’s hips. He lets his ass sway a bit in a small little grind until Steve forces him still with a warning grip to Bucky’s thigh. Bucky smiles. 

It’s when Shuri says something about _Alexander Pierce_ that Bucky snaps back to full attention. Bucky looks over to see her pulling out of the hug and bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement as she adds something about *** _pills_ ***, *** _metabolic rates_ ***, and *** _preliminary findings_ ***. Even now her focus is on the medical mystery and Bucky finds such consistency comforting. 

“Pierce?” Erik says, switching back to City and finally paying more than a passing glance at the other three visitors in the room. At the sound of the name, Steve’s fingers curl tighter around Bucky’s hip, tense and possessive, and Bucky’s chest flutters. 

“We’re going to bring him down,” Shuri explains, eyes alight and smile growing wide. 

Erik studies her for a moment longer before turning his gaze to Bucky, really looking at him for the first time with recognition in his eyes, assessing. “That what you’re here for, too?” 

The question is heavy and Bucky reads the message in it loud and clear. Unlike Steve, Erik knows exactly who and what Bucky is. And Erik wants to know why—needs one good reason why he should trust that a member of Alexander’s own house was standing in Erik’s foyer with mutually beneficial intentions. 

Bucky nods, trying to convey with every piece of himself that he has just how deep his loathing of Alexander runs. It’s the flex of his arm that seems to do it though. The soft grinding whir of it catches Erik’s eyes and Bucky watches as his lips turn down, considering. Maybe he’s thinking about the headlines in the press and Peirce’s forced affected “distraught” at Bucky’s near-miss demise that had been broadcasted on all the telecoms for months. How Peirce had given interviews about Bucky’s reconstruction, claiming the expenses and the advanced designs of the impressive cybergraft as his own. But Erik had to know Shuri’s work and the unique signature of her designs. He had to know that Hydra tech didn’t even come close to Stark tech, let alone the near wizardry that Shuri could pull off in a lab. The story circulating the media about Bucky’s accident and his arm had never added up, but people didn’t tend to question things that were so glossed over. And they didn’t tend to question Peirce. 

Bucky can see Erik adding up the pieces. He wonders how much loss and betrayal Erik must have already suffered in life to allow him to arrive at the conclusion so quickly: That “family” or not, Bucky’s body now easily detached into fragments because the only father he’s ever really known had tried and failed to kill him. That fact doesn’t mean Erik has to help them, however. Or even care. Erik looks at Bucky for a moment with something akin to understanding though, and that’s the best that Bucky can hope for under the current circumstances. 

Erik tilts his head a fraction and Bucky can tell that the small subtle action means a great many things, both amnesty and a warning: _Don’t fuck me over._ Erik turns back to Shuri then, his body swaying in a loose yet calculated swagger as his face breaks into a grin, a bigger one than Shuri’s, if that’s possible. “Next time lead with that,” Erik says, “I owe that guy some pain.” 

And maybe it’s too easy, how quickly Erik opens his home to Shuri and her tag-along strangers after that. And if it were about anything other than a mutual hatred of Pierce, Bucky would be suspicious. But Pierce just has that effect on people. A way of unintentionally unifying divergent patches of The City in unexpected ways. Bucky knew that Erik didn’t have any reason to trust them, but Bucky could easily trust that Erik also likely had plenty of reasons to hate Pierce, too, so that was good enough for him. Besides, Bucky only has six hours to go until Peirce’s deadline and he’s desperate. Bucky doesn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing who to trust tonight. 

The only person Bucky has ever fully trusted in his life, anyway, is Shuri. And that had been earned both ways for each of them through years of sweat, blood, and city grime. And yet, for whatever reason, Bucky is pretty sure he trusts Steve, too—Trusts Steve with his well-being possibly as much as he trusts Shuri, which is _insane_ , Bucky knows that. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the sleep deprivation, or maybe it’s just the man himself. But there’s just something about the guy that makes every wall Bucky has ever built melt into surrender under Steve’s careful grasp. 

Throughout the whole interaction, Steve’s fingers have stayed curled into his hip. They feel right there, stabilizing. Bucky knows that Steve is taking a lot on faith here, too. Maybe more so than even Erik is. Erik at least has Shuri, who he trusts, vouching for him. Steve’s just _here_. He had come along just because Bucky had asked him to, and stayed even after he had realized who Bucky was. The image of Steve’s face when it had all clicked into place for him had been so surprised. And yet, it hadn’t been angry. Bucky is used to angry, especially from the guys who find out about his iron teather to Peirce _after_ Bucky has already let them fuck him. 

Bucky gets that the anger is usually a bent form of fear. And that the fear of touching something that belongs to Alexander Peirce is enough to warp any man’s mind. Bucky knows this because he used to feel all that fear and anger, too. Back when his mother had first married Alexander and Bucky had immediately felt the chokehold of Peirce’s reign wrap around his neck with so much force that it constantly prickled in his spine. But a guy can only live in that crushing vortex so long, and that fear had hardened for Bucky into an indignant recklessness years ago. In a way, “the accident” had been a kind of blessing, giving Bucky just enough leverage to slip a bit from Peirce’s hold. Now it’s Bucky who chooses when and for whom he’s an object, a tool, or a toy. 

The night’s still long, even as the minutes tick, hurtling toward the dawn. Bucky has no idea what that thin break of light will bring. But he does know—the only thing he knows—with Steve’s big calloused fingers rubbing soothingly against his spine, is that he has to stay alive. To keep them all alive. If only because he wants to stay Steve’s toy. 

*--*__*--*

Even before Steve had taken the bodyguard position for Sharon at the club, Steve had always been good at the job. That feeling—the one that made him watch and hover and yearn to protect the people around him—had always been a part of him, inlaid in the bone. And the thing about that feeling, one that usually left most men wracked with anxiety, all high heart rates and higher blood pressure, proved with Steve’s body to be the opposite. The promise of looming danger—the idea that he might be needed—always made Steve into something _calm_. 

Maybe it was the assassin that was still out there in the night. Maybe it’s the matrix of vertical tunnels that they had descended in order to get this far underground. Maybe it’s standing in a place that to Steve feels more like a bomb shelter than a laboratory. But whatever it is, Steve’s pulse has never been steadier. His heart beats strong. Ready. He feels alive with it. There are a lot of factors at play, all variable, but the one constant they have in common is Bucky. 

_Bucky_ —his world, his body, his spirit—all burned so very brightly. Since the moment that Bucky’s very essence had sucked Steve in, Steve had been learning more and more about how every crevice of Bucky’s life was filled with shadows and risk--so full of danger that Steve has no choice but to stand at constant alert. It puts Steve at ease. 

It feels entirely natural to stand in Bucky’s shadow. This is what Steve _does_. He watches and protects. And he’s good at it. So as they wait in the foyer of the lab, Steve keeps his hands on Bucky but his eyes on the man Shuri tells them is Erik. This man and his fortress is a new situation and Steve isn’t convinced that a man who lives this far out of town, buried so far under the dirt, will welcome strangers with open arms. 

Erik talks exclusively to Shuri. The only sign that he knows the other three are there at all are the glances that waiver between curious, amused, and untrusting. Steve can’t fault him for that last one. Not only does Erik have no reason to trust them, the only one of them that Erik apparently already knows by name is Bucky--the step son of a man Erik apparently has a deeply personal vendetta against. 

Because Bucky, the boy that smells like infrared and sunshine, _is Alexander Pierce’s step son._

Sure, Steve had known the moment that Bucky had opened his mouth back in the club, plush soft lips pleading far too well in front of a stranger for the intimacy of pain, that Bucky must live a fast life full of dangers. He had even suspected that Bucky might be mixed up in some kind of local faction that was ever-engaged in one of the many ongoing street wars, fighting and scrapping over a simple neighborhood block. But no, Bucky was a _Pierce_ —a childlike prince of an entire dirty empire. 

Pierce didn’t just own a district; he owned _The City_. And as long as a man like Pierce was alive and breathing the soiled city air, that meant he also owned _Bucky_ , willing or not. 

It’s been a long night. They’ve been through a lot, but even with all Bucky’s soft sighs and submissions, Steve isn’t sure _he_ even fully trusts Bucky, given all the shaded unknown angles of his position, so he can only imagine the discomfort that Erik is in. Steve wants to trust Bucky, though. Wants the need and sorrow in his eyes to be real. But he’s seen Bucky’s ability to perform already. The way he had been at Club Thirteen, cooing out babel like it was his only tongue along with Steve’s own instinctual observation, even then, that Bucky was not a boy to underestimate. 

The one thing Steve does trust is that Bucky needs something from him. He needs the drugs in his veins, of that Steve’s sure. It’s what Bucky will need from him afterwards that Steve remains unsure of. He has his own hopes—a personal stake in the matter. But hope isn’t trust, nor is it truth, and Steve is better at his job than to forget that. 

That’s all easier said than done, however, considering Steve can’t seem to keep his hands off Bucky. And considering how Bucky practically whimpers every time Steve does. In fact, Bucky at least seems so genuinely wrapped up in Steve —in _them_ —that he barely speaks in front of Erik, dropping back at the entrance so that Shuri can advance. 

It’s a good thing that Shuri does all the talking anyway. She gives only the most important notes. Only the relevant things to put Erik at ease or, at least, get him on board with helping them. Steve has a feeling that when Bucky gave the run down to Shuri, he wasn’t nearly as concise or focused. Granted, Bucky has a lot on his mind. And Steve knows how selfish he is for wanting the most prevalent thing to be him. Steve might not flatter himself so much that such a thing could even be a possibility, if Bucky wasn’t making it constantly and unsubtly obvious that he wanted Steve to stay close to him. To keep _touching_ him. Steve does and Bucky presses into it every time, so subconsciously starved for it that Steve has to wonder when Bucky was last touched, even when everything else about Bucky suggests that Bucky touches _everything_ and often. 

It can’t be more than ten minutes of Shuri explaining things to Erik, while her cousin leads them into a deeper part of his hideout, but in that short time, Bucky touches, grabs, and hangs off of Steve like he needs a dose of him once an hour or he’ll combust. Steve tries to rein them both in. To maintain the contact without crossing lines. It’s not the time or the place, and as helpful as Erik is being, Steve isn’t sure that would hold up if he grabbed Bucky by the back of the neck and fucked him into one of the walls. 

Steve would be doing a better job of discouraging Bucky if he didn’t react so positively to the advances. Every touch and small sound makes Steve heat up and lean in before he can think better of it. Steve thinks this intoxication can’t be natural, must be an unknown side effect of Bucky’s little synaptic pill. He certainly isn’t used to reacting to people like this—to be drawn in so suddenly, submerged in the need to touch another person so thoroughly. At least, not at first glance. The first contact. The first _fuck_. 

But Steve knows he had felt this foregin frenzy of a connection before he had ever swallowed what Bucky fed him. Bucky feels warm and electric under his hands. Steve can’t seem to stop reaching out whenever Bucky presses in, strumming the knobs of his spine with his fingers, feeling the way that Bucky quivers. How his own pulse sings. The addiction isn’t the drugs; it’s Bucky. 

While Bucky is clinging to Steve, slithering his hands anywhere he can reach before Steve tries to curtail him, Peter is walking right beside them, acting as if he sees nothing. After observing Peter for a few steps he realizes it’s _because_ Peter sees nothing— his focus is devoted entirely to gazing around Erik’s lab like Charlie in Willy Wonka’s factory, or at Shuri in a different kind of wonder and admiration. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more lovesick in his life until Bucky nips at his ear suddenly and hard enough that Steve grabs him by the back of the neck and snarls at him on instinct. 

Bucky’s eyes are so wide and dark, the thin slit of grey barely visible around his pupils, that Steve can almost see himself reflected in them and, well, Peter is not the only smitten idiot in this hallway—not even close. And just like that, Steve’s resolve to withhold his remaining offerings of trust shatters a little further. The risk in that is palpable. There’s a long way to go until dawn, and Steve knows what happens in The City in the night. He knows how dark the corners get, and how Pierce’s tall tower of an empire is built out of shadows. And he now knows that Bucky lives in those shadows. Maybe even _thrives_ in them. Only, in his own way, Steve has always lived there too. A dark moth drawn to an even darker flame. 

He’s in this now anyway. Peter can at least claim to the police that all the laws he’s broken were under duress, and Peter would insist that Shuri was too. But he himself has no such excuse; Bucky has never held a gun to his head. What Bucky has held against Steve is much more dangerous, volatile even. The only thing Steve will be able to say in his own defense is, “But _look at him_ , officer.” 

From beside him, Bucky softly headbutts Steve’s shoulder, as if Bucky could sense Steve’s thoughts. Steve tsks at him even as his fingers flutter upwards to stroke through the base of Bucky’s hair, breathing in the scent of smoke and tangerines, “*Remember when you said this would only take two hours?*” Steve can’t help but smile as he asks Bucky. 

Bucky chuckles, **“*Yeah, well, I have very poor time management skills.*”**

**“*So I’ve noticed,*”** Steve drops the hold he has on Bucky’s neck and picks up his pace to catch up with the others, wondering what Bucky will do with the separation. If Bucky is the kind of boy to take Steve walking away as an abandonment or a chase.

The others have already turned into one of the rooms, and the bright florescent light shines into the hall like a beacon in case Bucky and Steve should become _distracted_ and get lost. It’s a distinct possibility. Erik’s building is a labyrinth constructed meticulously from scraps—parts tossed aside and forgotten by all the other zones and districts. Steve had been impressed with Erik’s operation when they had stepped off of the elevator, even more so as Erik led them deeper into the belly of the facility. It’s nothing like Stark Industries but Erik has none of the resources of Tony, or even Bruce whose research is at least City-funded. Erik truly has built his fortress from the ground up. His items taken from junkyards and discarded prototypes and sewn into something new. There’s a look of the place that’s mostly exposed wires and loose panels, like Erik prefers to see the inside of a thing— easier to fix that way. It puts Steve in mind of the innards of the magnet at Thirteen and the way Clint would rather tape something up than replace it. 

But the fraction of the lab that Erik leads them to and offers them—offers Shuri really—is immaculate. The tech looks older than what Steve had seen at the hospital but no less cared for and cleaned. These didn’t come from a junkyard or an estate sale when Roxxon abandoned the place. These are things that Roxxon left, for which they didn’t even care enough to throw away, because who would want them when newer models were on the market? 

Shuri takes off her coat and lays it on the swivel chair before sitting down. Peter follows her inside and immediately starts pawing at things around the room, making little gasping noises and touching all the equipment. Erik leans on the door frame even after Steve and Bucky come inside. 

Shuri points to Bucky and then to the chair next to her while she opens a few drawers looking for things. Bucky follows her silent orders, shrugs out of his own coat, and Steve is suddenly reminded of how _good_ Bucky looks wearing Steve’s shirt—how much smaller Bucky seems in the shirt that doesn’t fit him. 

“I’ll be up front. If you need anything,” Erik says and when all he gets from Shuri is a distracted nod, he slips back into the dark hallway without even glancing at the rest of them. And yet Steve can still tell that he sees them all anyway. That Erik is a man constantly both ever aware and dismissive of his surroundings. It’s a power move. Something both obvious and subtle. As is the impressive glide of his gait as he exits. Steve can still hear his feet on the tile for a few minutes after he’s gone. 

Peter finds what Shuri has been looking for, carrying several large machines over to her and setting them neatly on the table in front. She smiles at him. 

“We’re doing blood samples right?” Peter confirms. 

“Yes,” Shuri nods, “and then we need to break the blood down and isolate the components of the drug.” 

Peter’s eyes glaze over as he whispers, “That is so cool,” and he stands in awe for a few more seconds before he continues his quest around the room to get Shuri everything she needs. Shuri preps a needle and bag then holds her hand out to Bucky, palm up, only to have him slap the metal one into it. 

It’s cute—silly, if not a little bratty, and Steve smiles despite himself. Truth be told, Steve actually knows a few things he could do with Bucky’s metal arm and a needle. 

Shuri, on the other hand, rolls her eyes at Bucky. “Very funny,” She says, and then tips her hand so Bucky’s metal one drops out of her grasp. Bucky sits, obedient now, as he spins in the chair, detaching from Steve in order to offer her the flesh arm. 

Shuri sterilizes the inner elbow, runs her fingers along the veins until she finds one she likes. There’s something in Bucky that likes it, too. It looks to Steve like his veins rise up to meet her, eager to be the one chosen to open itself up so that the needle can slip inside. Maybe every part of Bucky, even his organs and his blood, seek out the pain and risk that the boy himself does. 

Bucky doesn’t even flinch when the needle goes in but his face still twists, his mouth opening softly, delighted by the sting. Steve feels like he can see it in slow motion, a frame by frame reveal of Bucky’s complex desire for risk and punishment. The way he craves the moment that the sterilized steel pierces the skin. How smooth it glides. Steve can hold the pictures in his mind easily—maybe because this is the best lighting they’ve had all night, the harsh fluorescents bleaching out all the color but the red. Or maybe it’s because he’s growing more accustomed to the particular way Bucky squirms just right under powerful hands. 

“I can do your blood, Steve,” Peter offers from his perch, suddenly beside him. Steve had forgotten Peter was even there—possibly would have forgotten Shuri too if her hands weren’t the ones moving delicate and clinical over Bucky’s easily bruised skin. “Or sir? Mister?” Peter tries, mistaking Steve’s lack of Non-Bucky-based object permanence for distaste. 

“Just ‘Steve’ is fine, Peter.” The poor guy even seems a little scared of Steve. That makes sense, the only thing he’s seen Steve do is fight a masked bandit on top of a moving vehicle. There was also what had happened in the back of the ambulance while Peter was driving them to safety but Steve can only hope that he had managed to keep Bucky quiet enough that they weren’t overheard. “Sure,” Steve agrees, taking an offered stool that Peter pulls out for him. Peter must be scared; the least Steve can do is give him a task. 

**“*Are virgin boys your thing?*”** Bucky asks in R-12, his blissful gaze turning sour—calculating. If Steve couldn’t understand the words, he could still read the petulant tone of jealousy in Bucky’s voice. The fact that he picked R-12 indicates to Steve that he doesn’t want Shuri to hear them, which is interesting. There aren’t too many things so far that Bucky seems all that concerned with other people overhearing. 

**“*He’s just being _helpful_ ,*”** Steve corrects, which is true, but he knows that the way he rolls his tongue through the words will land the way he wants them to. That it might salt the open sore of jealousy Bucky seems to be experiencing. The heated look Steve gets in return confirms his calculations. A small torture. Bucky looks _beautiful_ all heated with entitlement and possession. 

Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky as Peter presses the wet cotton to his inner elbow, Peter whispering, like the words help steady him, “ _cubital fossa_.”

Bucky, for once, struggles with the eye contact, his own gaze flickering between Steve’s eyes and Steve’s arm; at the needle going in. His mouth tight with a subtle little tension where he clenches the muscle in his jaw, expression stormy and yearning like it distresses him to see something else get under Steve’s skin. 

**“*So you like _helpful_ virgin boys,*”** Bucky growls, still so petulant and sullen; It makes his eyes look almost blue. **“*Good to know.”**

**“*I don’t believe I said anything about ‘virginal boys’.*”** As much as Steve loves watching the needle in Bucky’s arm, he has no interest in his own. Would rather, in fact, be anywhere else. It’s not the pain of the needle, the prick of something as simple as a blood draw barely registering as sensation on his own arm. It’s the medical nature of it. The procedure a reminder—an echo—of when Steve was young. An experiment. Powerless. Watching Bucky like this, riling him up until all Steve can see is the heat, it helps. 

**“*So do you?*”** Bucky challenges, unwilling to let it drop, **“*Do you like your boys sweet and innocent and _untouched_? All wide-eyed and unconquered by anyone but you?*”**

Part of Steve is curious as to what Bucky would do if he were to say “yes.” If Bucky would try to change himself in accordance or if he would try and change Steve’s mind instead. Both have their appeal, and yet such an answer wouldn’t be true. Steve has always liked boys exactly like Bucky: bold and experienced in their desire. Boys who knew what they wanted and how to get it. And Steve hasn’t lied to Bucky yet, nor does he want to. 

**“*Sweet, yes. Innocent and untouched, no. I like boys that move like you do. That _want it_ like you do. And you want it so very badly, don’t you, doll?*”**

Bucky wriggles in his seat as he exhales sharply. The movement jostles the needle and that only seems to make Bucky squirm harder. 

Shuri pokes at his shoulder to get him to sit still. **“*Speaking in babel isn’t actually making you sound any less grossly insatiable to the rest of us,*”** she warns them in some other dialect, one with more diphthongs elongating the words, her eyes more on Bucky than Steve. 

Bucky winks at her. Flushed and obviously distracted, Bucky still manages to be boyishly charming. It’s an impressive skill. As is Shuri’s own range of babel. Steve hasn’t known her long but he’s heard her speak, fluently, at least three languages so far. There was no babel pill for her to swallow, so when Bucky said he had a “really smart friend” back when they had been at Club Thirteen, he wasn’t just flattering her. It’s an unusual feat. A skill claimed by less than one percent of The City’s population, so Steve has to wonder how Shuri was able to learn so many different tongues. 

“What are you guys talking about?” Peter asks, not sounding annoyed but curious. Poor little City Boy only able to speak City and nothing else. Just a few hours ago, Steve was the same. The City has an unspoken but prevalent rule that people on the whole should keep their own tongues in their own districts. People in the City Center, people with credits to burn like Tony, could possibly pick up a secondary local dialect if they really wanted to put in the effort, but most City Center folk don’t care or see the point. Everyone they meet speaks City—if you don’t speak City you aren’t worth talking to. 

“They’re flirting,” Shuri replies, filling a fifth small test tube with Bucky’s blood. The little vials shine neatly on the countertop next to each other. Steve notes how different the color of blood is when exposed here under the white fluorescents as opposed to the breakout splatters of bar fights under the rainbow of lights in The Club. 

She fills six altogether, then presses a cotton swab to the place where the needle meets Bucky’s delicate skin to soak up the splash of red when she pulls it out. The swab fills up with red like Bucky’s blood doesn’t want to stop being drained, wants to give all of itself, a plea of _I can give more. Take more of me_. 

Shuri puts a bandaid over the cotton. The smooth, practiced movement of it reminds Steve that he too is being drained by medicinal hands, and he looks at Peter again, having once more forgotten about him completely. Steve can’t keep his eyes on Peter’s work for long, however—finds he still can’t watch himself be prodded at, no matter how much nicer and more honorable Peter’s intentions are than Howard Stark’s ever were. It’s a painful thing to think of himself as an experiment— a medical marvel. One that The Great Western Wizard himself had built when he had taken the brittle foundations of an ever-ailing boy and had hardened his bones, copper wired his sinews and tweaked the metabolic rate of his cells until the whole of his insides were practically just a wet mash of synthetically-aided biology, nothing but one big cybergraft masquerading as flesh. 

Steve wonders, idly, how his Howard-enhanced insides will look to Shuri when processed through the lab. Or if Peter can maybe even see it now, rushing into the little clear tubes, how his blood is laced with nanochemicals and chrome. He wonders if Bucky had seen it, too, back in the club. If Bucky had recognized the synth in Steve or even Steve himself from some still circulating cyberblog somewhere and chosen him accordingly. 

It’s an ugly thought, one that Bucky hadn’t exactly earned. But, objectively, Peirce’s step-son had shown up out of nowhere in a club he’d never been to before, convincingly “performed” his non-city speech act with what Steve later understood to be an enticingly smooth if not manipulative seduction, and eagerly fed him exactly the kind of drug Howard would have if he had any such thing in his arsenal before he’d died. Steve’s body is exactly the kind of body some mad scientist with a new toy would want to test-market an enhancement on, and Steve would be remiss not to at least engage the possibility that Bucky had been sent out into the night as either Pierce’s heir apparent or errand boy to do just that, even if he hopes for so very many reasons that it isn’t true. 

Steve looks, again, back up towards Bucky, trying—not for the first time—to analyze what Bucky wants. The task proves, as it has before, paradoxically easy and yet difficult—complex. Because the simple clear answer, Steve is sure, is that Bucky wants so many things. And yet, somehow none of those things seem to be an interest in the medical part of the procedure in front of him. Bucky once again isn’t meeting his gaze, but his eyes are busy, grazing slowly up and down Steve’s body, rigid as it is in his seat. The dilation in Bucky’s eyes is genuine. And Steve lets that placate him somewhat, loosening his concerns over the sexual parts of Bucky’s intentions; whatever else Bucky wants with Steve’s body, he at least also wants _him_. 

Bucky has seen Steve before, has been looking at him more or less for the past four hours since they collided in The Pynk Room, trips to The Center precinct excluded. And yet, Bucky looks at him now like it’s his first chance to really do so. And maybe it is. The lighting _is_ better here, it’s pure white bulbs constructed for microscopic inspection. And Steve has, admittedly, had the better vantage points all evening. Steve at least had the chance to pin Bucky to the wall, take in the bare parts of him slowly while the boy was held in place and begging for Steve to give him the attention, Steve fixated and watching the whole time as the colors of the lights melted over him from red to white to blue. 

Bucky hasn’t had that same luxury. Tends, Steve has noticed, to let his eyes slip closed when he’s heated. Feels things more than sees them. But there’s no reason Bucky can’t take his time to admire Steve while he’s sat still under Peter’s ministrations now. To see and take in as much as he’d like. Depending on how the rest of the night goes, this might be his only chance to for a while. The severity of the current situation, walking around as the living petri dish of one of Alexander Pierce's designer drugs, isn’t lost on him. And Steve has no idea what Bucky will do once he has his blood. If he’ll dismiss him or kill him or still beg Steve to fuck him. 

He’s bound to find out shortly enough. Shuri has already taken Bucky’s blood samples into an adjoining room at the back. Probably a clean place she can study the samples. Steve can’t turn around to watch her and see exactly what she does. It’s for the best, probably, since Steve wouldn’t understand what she was doing if he saw it anyway. Also, he’s not inclined to look away from Bucky. 

“Do you need any help, Doctor Adanna?” Peter calls to her, eyes and hands still focused on filling as many vials with Steve’s blood. Peter must like having something to focus on. 

“I will in a minute,” Shuri says back, sounding equally as focused and distracted, “finish with Steve’s samples first. I want to compare them.” 

Steve still can’t watch Peter work but he knows when the guy is done when he feels the needle slip out of him. Peter puts a cotton swab and a bandaid over the area, not noticing that Steve’s arm doesn’t need it, and then slaps Steve on the shoulder. “All done,” Peter gathers up the vials, “you did great, Sir--Steve.” 

“Yeah, _Sir_ ,” Bucky mimics, a sharp tease as his eyes rake over Peter’s careful hands, but the jealousy is already slipping out of his tone now that Peter is definitely withdrawing and walking away from them and to Shuri. 

“So,” Bucky tries again once they are as alone as they can be in the room, much more quiet, suddenly, as he picks at his bandaid. Steve’s eyes follow the light reflecting off Bucky’s graft. The fingertips of his graft hand are smooth, and Steve instinctually just knows that they can’t scratch whatever itch is under his skin as deeply as Bucky wants them to. Steve also finds it curious that Bucky, usually thus far so bold, suddenly can’t seem to look at him. Instead, Bucky turns those grey eyes of his to the floor like he finds the fissures in the tile incredibly interesting. “I don’t think Shuri will need anything else,” Bucky says, “If you wanted to go home now, or something. I’m sure with all the machines around here something is bound to move decently enough to get you to the highway.” 

Steve nods that he’s heard him, but he doesn’t move to stand. Whatever circumstances had led to Bucky crashing into his life, at least Bucky doesn’t seem like he plans to kill him. Steve can tell that the offer for him to leave is genuine, even a little sullen, maybe even sad. Like Bucky truly doesn’t know the level of power he and his wide silver eyes have managed to conjure over Steve already. The blood samples are all Bucky really needs, and they had both agreed that Steve would give him his time until Bucky had them. He has them now, but looking at Bucky curled into his chair, fight and flirtation drained out of him enough to reveal a glimmer of the hesitant and tired kid Steve assumes Bucky once was, Steve is pretty sure Bucky genuinely has other needs, too. Ones Steve could readily fill if Bucky will let him. 

The other thing Steve is sure of is that Bucky’s offer to let him go wasn’t really a _dismissal_. Once again, Bucky’s emotions aren’t that hard to read on the surface--all easy openings with complicated conclusions. Steve can recognize an out when he sees one. And Bucky offers this one like a sacrifice, pushing open the back exit for Steve to run through while knowing that he will have to remain behind, trapped inside. 

And damnitall if Steve hadn’t always had a weak spot for a damsel in distress. 

Steve gets out of his chair and makes the quick two steps to Bucky to touch his hand and bring it away from his elbow. When Steve’s fingers make contact with the metal, Steve finds he can’t pull his hand away—finds a comfort in the warm steel. 

“My two hours are up,” Steve concedes, but he knows he isn’t going home alone, knows it even before Bucky’s grey eyes gaze up at him, wide and inviting, while Bucky chews at his bottom lip. Steve can feel the whirr of the machine under his touch almost like it’s begging Steve not to leave, not to take his hands off. “What about you?” 

Bucky doesn’t so much say the word “me?” as he mouths it, small and soft like he is the last thing on his own mind. Maybe, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Bucky hasn’t truly thought about himself, his needs, since picking up Steve. After all, the way that Bucky moves, more instinct and reaction, doesn’t imply a lot of forethought. Maybe Bucky’s just that kind of boy. The kind that exists in the immediate heartbeat of the moment. 

Steve takes a calculated risk of his own as he tugs Bucky closer to him. “Shuri doesn’t need your body anymore than she needs mine now. We could go somewhere else— together.” 

“To your place?” Bucky whines, another _reaction_ to stimulus, but it’s hopeful—a type of begging he can’t hold in. Steve can see the moment when Bucky’s eyes glaze over, his beautiful filthy mind impulsively filling with ideas and expectations of what Steve will do once he has Bucky all to himself. Steve’s been coming up with things himself all night—could not make time for everything unless he held Bucky captive for a lifetime. 

“Look how sweet you get,” Steve teases him, pushing some of his boy’s hair back, more to stroke his fingers through it than anything else. “Behaving yourself now, aren’t you?” 

Relief takes over all of Bucky’s features; he looks so _grateful_ that Steve might whisk him away. And that reaction, the sentiment of it, it’s unnecessary, but it’s _perfect_. Steve lets the impulse and instinct he feels at that grateful gaze ride through him, thumbing at Bucky’s bottom lip. “Say, ‘thank you’,” Steve demands. 

“Thank you, daddy,” Bucky replies, breathy and with just as much instinct, immediate and unquestioning. 

“Say you’ll come with me,” Steve follows. 

Bucky’s mouth opens, soft tongue coaxing the tip of Steve’s fingers in as his eyes light up, that self-assured spark that Steve finds so captivating rushing back in. Bucky is so clearly about to answer in the affirmative, to give Steve permission to whisk him away to his cages and his cuffs (not that he has the latter at the moment—they’re probably sitting on Detective Wilson’s desk) but Steve has many things to hold Bucky down with. Bucky tips his head back, into the soft grip of Steve’s hand as he pets his boy, and Steve knows it’s the beginning of a nod when they’re both broken out of the spell by Shuri and Peter laughing too loud at something in their little corner of the lab. 

The two are not paying Steve and Bucky any attention, too many other, more important things to focus on like each other and the drug. But their laughter snaps Steve back all the same, reminds him where they are, why they’re there, and that they can’t leave Shuri here cleaning up 

Bucky’s mess while he gets fucked through Steve’s mattress. It has a similar effect on Bucky too, whose pupils have contracted slightly as he takes a cautious step away from Steve. And Steve is once again blown away by the depths of sad exhaustion that lurks under the gleam of his irises. 

“We probably shouldn’t leave yet,” Bucky admits, sounding sincerely heart broken. “Shuri...Becks--I’ve got to see this through. Be responsible.” Bucky sounds like the word doesn’t fit in his mouth, like he hasn’t said it much before, at least not in this kind of context. But Bucky didn’t say _I_ shouldn’t leave. He said _we_. Then he must be hoping Steve stays to the end, too. Bucky must be extremely capable, if he’s survived in his world for this long. But still, Steve’s not sure Bucky would have gotten this far tonight without him. It’s in the hidden fragility of his motions. Activities that usually were fun for Bucky taking on new weight. And Steve knows he’s only seen a fraction of the things that are pressing themselves in around him. Detectives, assassins, ultimatums and threats, the well-being of his family and friends. There are too many things caging him in. It’s not the right kind of prison for a boy like Bucky and something in Steve yearns to show him another way. 

“Then we won’t leave,” Steve agrees, taking that step closer to Bucky, into his space once again, and continues his previous task of running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, keeping him sweet and calm. Bucky slackens under his grip, eyes still shining with a renewed kind of gratitude and awe and he opens his mouth to reply but the response comes from the doorway behind him instead. 

**“*I think you should definitely leave.*”** The words, phrased like an opinion, still sound, mistakenly, like an order. The voice is as unfamiliar to Steve as the language but he understands it all the same. Immediately set back on alert, Steve’s eyes flick upward to find Erik in the doorway, leaning on the frame and watching them all with calm interest. The voice isn’t Erik’s and Steve notes how this time he had not heard a single one of Erik’s steps on his return. Steve is further alarmed the moment he registers that Erik isn’t alone. That there is a second man with him, which must have been the source of the voice. 

Erik had promised Shuri at the onset that they were alone and that he understood the need to keep what they were up to a secret, both of which had clearly either been a lie or, at the very least, were no longer true. The tension in the air hangs heavy. Even Erik’s previous swagger has gone stiff where he stands, feigning casual, as if he himself doesn’t quite know what to expect from the newcomer’s presence. And that maybe more alarming than anything else. 

Steve immediately calculates all the potential outcomes if this new man turns out to be a threat, simultaneously scanning all the points of cover and egress he had clocked since the first outer door. It isn’t an ideal situation. This far underground, if Erik had betrayed them, then he had a considerable upper hand. 

The man at Erik’s side doesn’t look like a henchman. Steve can tell from a single glance that whoever he is, he doesn’t take orders. Certainly not from Erik. There’s no deference in his posture. Erik hasn’t hired him for the job. And from the way in which the man _doesn’t_ spare a single glance at the decor, despite the intelligence in his eyes, indicates that he knows the lab. Has likely been there many times before. He’s also tall, Steve’s height exactly, his black suit a fine luxury fabric somehow untouched by the rain, and his eyes are flicking around the room in search of something. 

The man says something to Erik, too low to hear the actual words but loud enough for Steve’s brain to clock the dialect. **“*I’m sorry,*”** Steve responds in the man’s spoken tongue, the words forming in his mouth of their own accord as he moves his body in front of Bucky’s. It’s his go-to move in his line of work, the instinct to protect turning him into a human shield. **“*Who are you?*”**

Bucky lets himself be maneuvered easily, body turning fluid and loose the moment Steve had grasped his bicep to yank him behind him. From behind him now, Bucky simply presses in closer, practically adhering his chest to Steve’s back as he nuzzles his nose between Steve’s shoulder blades. Steve can tell that Bucky’s movement isn’t out of any sense of fear, just a desire to be closer despite the induction of yet another possible threat. And not for the first time, Steve wonders, despite all of Bucky’s desperation and exhaustion, if there is anything that Bucky is truly _afraid of_. 

“So it’s true,” The man says, and there’s just something about him that reminds Steve of The City’s more wild cats: stealth and dignity and a bright indifferent curiosity all coiled together. He surveys Steve as well, assessing, before glancing back at Erik who shrugs before he nods towards the back room where Shuri and Peter are working, “About the pill.” 

At the mention of the drugs, Steve moves for his sidearm, ready to fight. But Bucky shifts behind him at the sound of the stranger’s voice, his hand resting over Steve’s, smoothing a thumb over Steve’s knuckles to get him to stay his gun. 

“Hey, Shuri,” Bucky yells, loud in Steve’s ear, a smile pulling at his lips as he pops out from behind Steve’s shoulder in a way that still manages to maintain as many lines of contact as possible. “Your brother’s here.” 

“What?” Shuri asks, shocked and not too overjoyed. Steve sees her head poke out of the back room. Her face contorts into three different emotions very rapidly, starting with shock, moving into a nervous smile, and finally ending on a glare at Erik. “* ** _Dramatic_** ,*” Shuri accuses Erik and this time Erik shrugs and concedes as much as he can with everyone’s hackles still raised. 

Peter’s head pops out of the room above Shuri’s and he looks at each of them in turn, trying to piece together why everyone is so tense and quiet. Steve wonders this a bit himself. 

For a prolonged moment the entire lab goes silent, save for the dull hum of the generators and the most faint distant sound of the rain. “Um, I’m Peter,” Peter offers into the quiet. “Parker,” he adds as the too long beat of silence draws out, and Bucky groans softly into Steve’s ear, clearly exasperated by something as he thunks his head against Steve’s shoulder. But Steve has to give Peter credit for trying. It’s really rather brave, after all, to insert himself into such a foreign situation—a respectable attempt to defuse the tension, even if it is one that definitely doesn’t work. 


End file.
